Brass in the grey
by cuckoo clover
Summary: Arthur's life has been grey for a long, long time. That is, until he meets a musician named Francis Bonnefoy. Ever since he arrived in London, a chain of bad luck followed Francis. That is, until he meets a writer named Arthur Kirkland. But there was more than meets the eye. Arthur fears criticism. Francis fears wasting his own life. But through a fruitful journey, they move on.
1. Chapter 1

_**Written for day six of FrUK week 2016 with the prompts of music and grey.**_

* * *

His world has been grey for a long, long time. Every day was the same constant routine of getting up, going to work, paying the bills and going to sleep. Life in London has become too predictable.

Sighing, Arthur straightens his white dress shirt through the dim light of his apartment as he gazes at the mirror. As he adjusts his tie, he heard a sound. Mixed in with the usual boring sound of car engines is the energetic sound of a saxophone.

Curious, Arthur opened his window and peers outside to try and find the source of the sound. That task would never been easier, for right outside on the pavement was a long haired man holding a saxophone. He stood there, as prominent as the music through the heavy beeps of traffic. Arthur rolled his eyes. Buskers.

Ignoring the sound, he shuts the window, took his suitcase and began his journey for work. In which he will need to pass the musician in the process. Arthur went down the stairs and to the pavement. As he passed said musician, he flips a ten pence into the saxophone case, though his gaze is concentrated to the path.

The sound of the saxophone disappears. Arthur turns his head around in response to see just what is making the busker stop playing the tune. That is when Arthur noticed that there is only one coin in the black saxophone case; his own. In front of the man is one of those foldable, portable music stand, but it has no music. The busker pulls out a grey folder from the saxophone case before he places it onto the stand.

Oh. So he was just warming up.

Realising his mistake, Arthur continues to walk forward to work. Without warning, a ridiculously strong gust of wind blew from behind him. Over his head flapped a piece of grey debris followed by a foreign word. Was that a folder?

Folder! Those are the man's music pieces! He lets go of the suitcase as he dashes forward towards the folder as it continued to fly farther and farther away. As he follows the folder, so did the man. The grey plastic flapped around the corner, past the corner shop and several stores. Several times he tries to grab the folder, but several times he fails. Before he knew it, the folder arrived at a bridge over the River Thames.

the wind stopped completely when the folder reached to the top of the bridge. The folder started to drop into the murky waters of the Thames. It's going to drop in! Arthur stretched his arm out past the railings and grabbed it just as the folder plummets into the river. And so did somebody else.

Blue eyes glances into his green ones as he looks at the musician.

There was a short silence.

"... Here's your folder," are the words which breaks the silence. Arthur lets go of the grey plastic and walks away from the man, pretending that nothing has really happened. As he looked around, Arthur noticed that this bridge is the same one he crosses every day to work. So he can just walk past this bridge to work. Only then did he realise that he is empty handed.

"Your suitcase?" Reminds the busker, voice suave. He rolls his eyes and traces their path together with the blonde.

As they walk back, Arthur can't help but notice the noticeable black marker scribbled onto the top left side of the folder. Francis Bonnefoy, it reads out. He wasn't too surprised at the foreign surname. After all, London is chocked full of people around the globe like the bursting contents of a child's pencil case.

At last they arrive back to the spot where Arthur's suitcase and Francis' musical equipments were.

Francis lifts his arm and waves goodbye. Arthur hesitantly raises his left palm in a half attempt at a wave. As he does, his silver watch shows what time it is.

He is late for work.

His eyes widens. Oh no, and he is late by twenty minutes as well. His boss will be pretty pissed off. Wasting no time at all, Arthur swivels around and hastes to work.

* * *

The street lights flickered on as Arthur traipses back towards his apartment. As he predicted, his boss was mad that he was late, though she said nothing. Today was again, same as every other day. Every new day seems to be recycled from the previous day. Tomorrow it will be the same schedule as today, and so will the next week, and so will the next year. Life has become grey. Too grey.

And then Francis passes by him, carrying his saxophone case and his music stand.

Still, Arthur continued to walk. He stopped completely though, when he heard two loud snaps. Arthur turns his head around to see what it was. It was Francis opening his saxophone case. Why though?

Francis starts to play a tune with his saxophone as his gaze focused onto Arthur. The tune had a smooth, cool and relaxed feel. Despite the couple of melancholic notes, the tempo and energy put behind it made it sound joyful. Jazz or the blues, he guessed. Unknowingly to Arthur, he starts to smile. Not too much, just enough to be counted as one. But still a smile nonetheless.

He doesn't quite mind it. Maybe he can get used to the music in this dull life of his.

* * *

 _ **For some of you who are readers of truth of the past and are noticing the constant flow of Hetalia fanfics, don't worry. I have not abandoned truth of the past. I just can't think of how to fill in some details in some of the scenes.**_

 _ **Anyway, I hope you enjoyed reading this fanfiction!**_


	2. Chapter 2

Francis didn't come out to busk for the rest of the week.

At first, Arthur tried not to think much of it. Why should he, anyway? Francis was probably busy with something else. Or maybe he was just trying busking out, something. But he did come to care. When he woke up, he hoped that it was brass that had woke him up. When he returned from work, he hoped for brass to greet him back.

Sadly, he didn't see the blonde man named Francis after that encounter at all. And on Saturday morning, he decided that he should forget about it. Either he could pine after a fleeting memory for who knows how long, or move on for more important things.

On the bright side, it was a Saturday, no work. (thank God) Instead, Arthur got up, got dressed, had some breakfast, and sat at his desk. He turned on his laptop and stared at the blank screen. The cursor blinked.

 _The_

Delete.

 _A_

Delete-

A blare of brass snapped Arthur out of his trance. He blinked, and looked out of the window. It was Francis again, playing another tune.

Francis! Annoyance filled him at first, but he calmed down when he realised that he was acting irrationally. Hell, they didn't even know each other properly yet. He took a deep breath in, and sat down to focus on writing.

 _It was a_

His mind wandered and refused to stay put. He concentrated more as he tried to wrangle some words out. In the end, he gave up and looked out at Francis.

He never thought that saxophones could sound so… vibrant, expressive and alive. It painted colour onto even tunes that he had heard a million times before. No wonder. Francis always put so much energy, whether it was how fast he pressed the keys, how often he jumped a little with the music, or the sheer amount of vigor put in to produce the music alone. It was a marvel how he still had the energy to move afterwards.

He liked it.

He rubbed his face. What was he thinking? Music was music. He shouldn't get himself too involved.

Music was music.

A spark of inspiration flicked on. And he thought. The spark evolved into a flame that lit a fuse.

Throughout their lifetimes, writers had many fuses within their heads, just begging to be lit by a spark of inspiration. He himself had arrived to London with many fuses within his head, but they all collected dust and mildew as he set aside his aspirations to be a writer for work.

He opened a new document and wrote down whatever he could think of. His fingers flew across the keyboard and the clicking keys filled the apartment. Arthur didn't notice; he was too busy filling the page with all his thoughts thoughts, they were multiplying, like wildfire!

This euphoria, this excitement, oh how he missed this feeling!

Five hundred words.

One thousand words.

This was madness! Never before had words come out this fast!

One thousand and fifty!

One thousand and sixty,

One thousand and seventy six...

One thousand and seventy seven.

And then the words trickled down. Just like that, the ecstasy disappeared, and the fire extinguished. No more words would come out after that.

The chair skidded back as he collapsed onto it, spent but satisfied. It had been a long time since he wrote like that.

He skidded forwards and read over what he wrote:

 _Never had I thought that music can be so beautiful; for me, it was just something to be perfected. But who knew that music can mean so much to some people whos whole life devote around loving music? I never felt the same way with the violin. Expectations everywhere force me_

Less impressive than what he had imagined, to be honest. Grammar mistakes, awkward phrasing, the list went on… Again, this was more of a dump of what he thought rather than a proper summary. He saved the document and opened a new one.

The fuse stayed unburnt as Arthur stared at the blinking cursor, though.

 _One_

Delete.

 _Sometimes_

Delete. There it was again.

He wanted to write more. The urge just poked him on and on. But… there was nothing.

He realised that there was a big reason why he couldn't continue yet; a lack of knowledge.

Writers lived a million lives to make their stories feel real, and so they needed to be an expert in a wide range of subjects, be it superstitions, folklore, psychology, or history. Arthur was an expert on all of these, but music? No. Of course, he remembered some technical things about music, like scales, (courtesy of piano lesson he got when he was seven) but that still left a blank space for, well, everything else.

He could call Dylan- no. Did he really want their first conversation in six years be a conversation about music trivia and violins? Granted, he was the more forgiving of his brothers, but that still didn't guarantee that he would go after his throat for leaving them for six years.

Maybe Francis- no, no no. Hell, they were still strangers. Moreover, he played the wrong instrument.

He shrugged off his thoughts, and searched up some facts about music instead.

…

An hour passed.

By now, Arthur had learnt at least something about violins. The fuse still remained unlit, though.

How come? He knew some things about music by now, shouldn't that prompt him?

A theory popped up, and he realised why nothing really flowed: he hadn't even thought of the story yet.

That was a good point, he thought. He got off of the chair, headed for the door and grabbed his coat. He could use some fresh air; that may give him some new inspiration. Even if it would do nothing about his knowledge of music, at least it could help him develop the story itself.

* * *

 ** _And tis my love for violins is showing heh. After a year, I've finally decided to continue this story. Let's see how this goes._**


	3. Chapter 3

To start off, Arthur walked into a nearby park. Brittle squash orange leaves crunched under his shoes as he did so. There were some people in the park. Children on the swings with their parents pushing them forwards, joggers carrying water bottles, a man walking his dog, the list goes on… 

He breathed in. The fresh air was enough to clear his head, and he began to think about his story. Not too long afterwards, he left the park after he finished brainstorming and because of boredom. He had never really been a big fan of a casual walk, anyway. 

Sure, he understood the appeal, but other than that, he felt that casual walks were rather dull. There was no destination in the walks; instead, it was just mindless wandering. Its main appeal was that you could observe and enjoy the little things in life. But of course, Arthur preferred living life rather than look at it in a third person point of view. Besides, in the time it took for one walk, he could've done a lot more things, like… like… not much, actually. 

He followed a bit of a routine during the weekends. Read a book, bind some if they were falling apart, buy some groceries, try to revive his novel, clean his apartment, etcetera etcetera… 

To be honest, he used to look forward to the weekends, even the gritty part of cleaning up his apartment. But of course, anything was better than the constant pattern of going to work before calculating endless sums in front a computer before walking back home again. Compared to that, the chores he did on the weekends were really refreshing. 

But again, at least this walk helped him brainstorm his story, so that was a plus. 

By then, Arthur was near the apartment block. He sat down onto a nearby bench anyway, and sighed as he mused. Sadly, the weekends lost its appeal as time rolled by. Was that how dull his life was? So dull that even the smallest of breaks were blissful? So that was his life now. A bunch of patterns- 

"Ah, so the suitcase man has returned." 

He nearly jumped out of his own skin! Arthur whipped his head to the right, ready to shout out any profanity that he could… 

Only to see Francis edging nearer towards the bench. Francis? Ah, right, he was busking right outside the apartment block. He was surprised that he had forgotten that. 

Seeing his puzzled expression, Francis chuckled, and Arthur felt the atmosphere relax. 

"Ah, my my, please excuse me." He sat down onto the bench. "Where are my manners?" Right on cue, he stuck out a hand with a smile. "I'm Francis." 

Hm? Oh right, they hadn't even introduce each other yet. 

"Arthur." Arthur shook Francis' hand. It felt strangely formal, as if they were meeting for business purposes instead. 

"Huh." Francis nodded, and they let go. He leaned back, and stretched. 

"By the way, thanks for catching my folder before it fell into the river." 

"Huh?" The folder he grabbed just before it fell into the River Thames? "A-ah, no, erhm." Jesus Christ, how should he respond? It was nothing? No, too arrogant and cliché. "E-erhm, you're welcome." Francis nodded, unaffected by the flaws in his answer. It was neutral enough, thank God. 

Should he say something also? Yes, of course he was supposed to say something. Arthur looked around. "Also…" 

"Hm?" He suddenly felt a bit self conscious when Francis looked at him. 

Jesus Christ, why was he shit at conversations? "Thanks for… for, erhm, playing the… the music…" 

"What?" Self consciousness sunk into him. He took a deep breath to calm himself. Of course, it didn't sound quite right out of context. All or nothing. 

"I had a bad day…" 

To Arthur's relief, Francis responded positively. "Ah, it was my pleasure." 

He leaned forwards, glanced to the left and met up with Arthur's gaze. "Not too much of a speaker, are you?" He asked, amused. Arthur paused for a bit, and shrugged. Compared to Francis, he himself was really stiff. 

A jumpy feeling rose up inside of him as he tapped his fingers on his knees, looking for something to say. He looked onto his fingers as he did, and he noticed his watch. How long did the walk take? Curious, he pulled back his coat sleeve. 

12:06 

Huh. Lunchtime. 

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Francis pull an iPhone out of his pocket. Probably to check the time as well. He widened his eyes and whistled when he turned it on. 

He muttered something under his breath, and stood up. 

"Excuse me," he muttered as he picked up his saxophone case. "I need to go now. Lunch with some friends." Arthur nodded. 

"Ah! Bye…" Before Arthur could add anything more, Francis was already off.

* * *

Ramen. The one dish that he couldn't fuck up. (There was a time when he actually burnt some, but that was irrelevant) And thank god, otherwise he would had died of starvation already.

Back in his apartment, Arthur ate ramen stirred in with some chopped vegetables out of the cup. Bit tough, he thought. Probably should've brewed it longer. 

He reflected his conversation with Francis while he ate. Their conversation was rather short. Arthur didn't know whether to be relieved that he didn't have to be awkward for longer or to be disappointed that it stopped so abruptly. 

He had an impression that Francis was the shy and quiet type when he saw him for the first time. (maybe it was the hair) Francis was actually a lot more chatty and relaxed than he had thought. Rather extroverted as well. 

He put down the ramen cup when all that remained was left over a drop of soup and a couple of noodle dregs. Bored, he looked at his watch: 

01:57 

Past noon. He could toss out the trash, then do the laundry, and then write some more... 

He paused at that, and mentally cursed. 

He could've asked Francis something about music!


	4. Chapter 4

_**Just a head's up, the dialogue may be a bit weird in this chapter, so yeah.**_

 ** _EDIT: I was looking through some miscellaneous pieces of writing for this fic, and I found a bit that fitted really well with this chapter, so I edited it in :)_**

* * *

Sunday morning was actually more tolerable than usual. Or maybe it was because he looked forward to this Sunday. He even got up earlier- to write.

Arthur did his morning routine before he sat down at the computer and typed.

The brainstorming from the previous day helped to give him ideas for his story. The spark from yesterday was still lit, just not burning like a forest wildfire, but rather sizzling at a more controlled, leisurely, and pleasurable pace.

Time blurred, and he wrote on, in this world of creating, experimenting.

After writing for a fair amount of time, Arthur sat back and let out a sigh of relief. That would make it… 12 pages of his rough draft already.

He revised what his story was about so far. The protagonist was a violinist who travelled to America in hopes of the American dream, but faced multiple challenges.

The plot was very average. He reasoned with himself that it was just a first draft, and honestly, they were supposed to be bad, anyway.

He glanced at the laptop's clock:

 _12:38 p.m._

He was surprised that he had actually been writing for two hours straight. Huh. Arthur stood up and stretched.

Just about lunchtime as well. He could have lunch, before he could clean up...

Whether it was seeing his coat when hanging from the coat rack when he turned around or how he was tired of chowing down undercooked ramen all day, an idea popped up in his head that maybe for once he should go out to eat.

After he walked out of the apartment block, he rewalked the route he took everyday when he walked to work. He passed by many businesses on the way to work, but never had the chance to go visit.

As Arthur walked, Arthur realised that there were a lot more variety of shops than he had thought. There were antique stores, book shops, cafés, all which seemed rather interesting…

He stopped in front of a white bakery.

In there beside the window was Francis patiently sipping coffee.

Arthur stood, unsure of what to do. Francis glanced to his direction, and he felt his insides tense up. Francis smiled and waved, and Arthur did the same with hesitance.

Seeing as Francis had seen him already, Arthur decided to go into the shop.

The bell rung with a clear _ping!_ And the tandalising aroma of yeast, vanilla and surrounded him immediately. At the sound of the bell, a man emerged to the counter.

"Good morning, how can I help you?"

Arthur marvelled at the dozens of colourful treats and breads all neatly arranged in the display case. Cakes, choux pastries, breads, tarts...

After some negotiation, he bought some madeleines. He caught sight of Francis looking at him, and walked towards his table.

He shyly sat down onto the seat opposite of him, and Francis glanced up.

"Hi," Arthur murmured. Francis smiled at Arthur's ernesty.

"Hi." He picked up his coffee cup and took another sip. "First time here?"

"Erhm," he tapped his fingers onto the table's wood as he recollected his memories. This bakery…

"Yeah."

"Huh." He took a sip out of his coffee. "Quite lovely, isn't it?"

He looked around the shop. It was a calm shop, with soft peach tones. It wasn't too crowded either. There were a few other people in the shop which the shop owners attended, but otherwise, the bakery was nice and peaceful.

"It's… Yeah, quite nice here." Francis nodded in agreement, and smiled.

"I love to come here to relax sometimes." Arthur agreed. The atmosphere was very soothing. He could come back to this place from time to time.

They enjoyed their refreshments in the calm tranquility of the bakery.

Francis looked out of the window as time went by, and shortly afterwards Arthur did the same.

On the other side of the road was the park, with the trees dressed up in millions beautiful delicate leaves of flames.

He looked forward at Francis. The way the morning sun illuminated Francis' hair made him look almost ethereal. His smile, his carefree look, it all made him appear even more other worldly, elegant, even.

For a split second, his smile disappeared.

"Ah, I love Autumn, don't you?" Francis suddenly asked. Arthur was a bit surprised at the sudden change of tone. He gulped down his madeleine.

"Autumn? It's… it's nice, I suppose. But I like Spring more."

Francis nodded in agreement. "Spring's quite lovely too. I could see the appeal. But of course, I love Autumn for its aesthetics."

Arthur nodded.

Another silence followed after. Nerved by the silence, Arthur thought: what could he ask, what could he ask?

He heard a faint tapping noise, and looked down. Francis' foot was tapping to the calming piano music that played on the radio.

Music…

"What... got you into busking? Doesn't seem too much of a promising career." Francis raised his eyebrows curiously before he chuckled.

"Arthur, it's more of a hobby," he explained in his smooth accent. Hobby? So that was why he was only out busking occasionally. "It's... more of a passion." Francis paused for a moment as he stroked the slight stubble on his chin,as if he was searching for the right words. "hmm… it's also… sort of an aim as well, I suppose"

Aim? Arthur thought. What kind of goal can one achieve through busking?

Noticing Arthur's puzzled face, Francis chuckled.

"You see, Arthur… Music. It's a universal language. No matter who you are or where you came from, music will still be music. And what music does is that it can make you feel a lot of different emotions. It can make anybody feel happy, sad, fearful, lively… the list is absolutely endless." Arthur was a bit moved by Francis' passion for his craft. He personally loved writing because he could escape from the real world for just a bit.

"And… what does that have to do with your 'aim'?" He asked. Francis paused. He sat back and thought.

"Hmm… well, it's sort of heartbreaking to know that there are people who live their lives in sadness and hopelessness. That's… sort of where I step into the picture. You see? I know that I can't really do much myself, but I play my music so that perhaps their day will become brighter."

If Arthur wasn't moved then, he was much more moved now. He thought back to when Francis played a tune when he came back from work, dejected, and felt grateful. He smiled.

For the rest of the afternoon, Arthur and Francis talked.

Arthur learnt that Francis was indeed from outside of London, (France) that he had been into jazz since he was 7, and that he had been in the city for three years.

He wasn't too willing to give much about his past, and only gave out the essentials; that he was born outside of London, and that he was a writer.

"Writer?"

"Only part time."

After they've finished talking, they left the bakery and retraced their steps back to the apartment block.

When Arthur reached his level, Francis waved goodbye, and Arthur did the same as Francis went up the next flight of stairs.

Suddenly he didn't feel as nervous anymore, now that he knew Francis better.

He closed the door, and smiled with the feeling of relief, satisfaction and happiness.


	5. Chapter 5

**_Frank is sort of my interpretation of the Kingdom of the Franks, aka France's dad._**

 ** _The words in Italics are spoken in French, while the bolded italicised words are the words spoken by Frank. Also, Francis is really OOC in this chapter, so you may want to watch out._**

* * *

He walked back into the apartment. Silence greeted him as Francis closed the door.

Resting in the corner was his saxophone. Francis walked over and unpacked it, before playing some quiet notes that filled in the silence.

For a moment, he savoured those notes. He wanted to play a tune, but he knew that the landlord would probably be noise complaints, and he didn't feel like busking.

Instead, he zipped open the case's upper pocket and grabbed his folder. He had printed some new pieces the previous night, so maybe it would be good to memorise them.

After roughly half an hour of marking in accents, crescendos, as well as notes, he grew restless and set aside the folder.

It was all that he did in his spare time; learning new music pieces. What else was there that he could do? The apartment was cleaned up, (thanks to Gilbert) and they went grocery shopping earlier on the week. While Antonio should be back soon, Gilbert was working overtime and shouldn't be back until 5.

Seeing nothing else to do, he grabbed the laptop resting on the coffee table and searched for new music pieces. Purple links showed up repeatedly as he scrolled down; done, done, done-

An incoming Skype call notification popped up in the corner; it was from his dad.

He tapped on it, and the video message of his dad came up. Francis was an almost mirror image of his dad. However, Frank had a constant, musing expression, greyer eyes, and a crooked nose.

 ** _"Hi."_**

 _"Hi dad. How… are you?"_

 ** _"I'm good."_**

A brief silence filled the gap as the Skype message glitched a bit. He could see that from how the computer screen's light shone on his dad's face, it was dark in France already.

 ** _"Did you find a job yet?"_**

 _"What? No, I-I'm good. And besides, it's not as if we're completely broke."_ He smiled for good measure. Frank peered, unconvinced. He wasn't the type who were easily fooled. He sighed.

 ** _"It's not the issue about money, and you know that."_** Francis nodded. Frank wasn't great with words, but he still knew why Francis was looking for a job.

 _"Alright, alright."_ Francis sighed, and looked to the side. They had talked about it the previous week. _"It's true, the last couple of years here were quite rough."_ He saw his dad nod. _"But searching for a job is not my top priority right now,"_ he quickly added. Frank nodded.

 ** _"If you have to, you can just move back,"_** he suggested. Francis thought. He could move back to Paris. However, Paris had less jobs than London. If he was to move back, he would just be leeching off of his father's fortunes with even less luck of employment.

Furthermore… Paris still held too much painful memories. Sure, three years had passed already since his mother and Lisa's death, but he couldn't bear to remember them. The Paris of his childhood, back when everything was tainted pink with rose coloured lenses…

 _"No thanks."_

 ** _"Alright. I understand."_** Francis nodded. They were both affected. Of course.

 ** _"Are you eating well?"_**

 _"Yeah."_

 ** _"Sleeping well?"_**

 _"... Yeah."_ Again, Frank sighed.

 ** _"Remember to sleep well then"_ ** Francis smiled at his dad's bluntness.

 _"Dad, it's alright to stay up for a bit longer; I'm not a child anymore."_ A small, rare smile formed formed on Frank's face.

 ** _"Just checking. Anything else happening to you?"_** He shook his head.

 _"Hm, no, not really."_

 ** _"Alright."_** More silence. **_"See you next week, then."_ ** And then the Skype message ended. Francis browsed the internet for more music pieces, and watched some YouTube videos them.

Soon, the lock behind him rattled, and he whipped his head around. As expected, Antonio strolled back into the apartment while carrying a sportsbag.

"Hey Fran!" He greeted, swinging the sportsbag onto the couch.

"Hi!" Francis scooted to the side as Antonio lied down onto the couch and sighed, exhausted. He knew that Antonio's schedule was exhausting, but he could sense that something was on his mind.

"How was the day at the workshop?" Antonio shrugged.

"Mhm, yeah, it was good." He sighed, but more out of satisfaction than tiredness. "We're actually going to start rehearsing for the musical next week!"

"Wow! Congratulations!" Antonio and his partner Roderich had been working on a musical for a local theatre company. He was still shocked at the news. It seemed that it was only yesterday when Antonio started on the project.

"I can't believe it! We're actually going to start rehearsing it! I never thought..." He nodded and hummed in agreement as Antonio continued to chatter about the musical. Eventually, his words became jumbled up, and his mind wandered to other things.

What had _he_ been doing during that time period while Antonio was helping Roderich create the musical, while so much had happened? Floating in time, more like.

"So yeah!" The last word broke Francis' train of thought. "Wow!" Antonio flopped back onto the couch, content. Again, he put up a smile.

"Congratulations!" He smiled. Antonio sat up.

"It's nothing honestly…" He paused when he saw Francis. "Hey Fran, are you alright?"

"No? I'm alright. Why?" He replied coolly. In reality, panic was hammering within him so much, he could pop.

Antonio's features relaxed.

"Ah." A wave of relief washed over him. "Just checking. I thought that you-"

"I'm fine." It came out harsher than expected. Antonio didn't seem to notice it too much, however.

The sinking feeling had beginning to appear again. "I'm going out." Francis grabbed his saxophone case and headed towards the door.

"What?"

"To busk. It's a new hobby of mine." The door behind him slammed shut louder than he had expected.

For a second he stood, and let go of the door knob. The silence and solitude was eerie. As he went down the stairs, his footsteps echoed inside the grey concrete walls.

He was floating in space and time with no reason. Why-

He shook his head. He shouldn't let those negative thoughts fill him and poison him into a thing that he was not.

What was wrong with him? He was fine the previous day. His friend had just reached a milestone, he shouldn't be selfish and pity himself.

When he reached to his regular busking spot, he opened the case, assembled his saxophone, and channelled his thoughts into playing with all his vigor.

It was a new piece that he recently memorised, and he racked his brain to remember how it went so that the piece was all that was in his mind.

He had started out busking on a whim simply as a hobby. Now, it could be a form of therapy.

The sound of the saxophone helped him feel like any good music should. If he converted his frustrations into music, it should help him feel better.

It should.


	6. Chapter 6

Arthur noticed that Francis had been busking more often than usual. Much more.

At first, he didn't pay too much attention to it. It was none of his business to mind over other people's lives and whatnot. But after Francis had busked outside for an entire week, that was when he went from slightly worried to legitimately concerned.

And he couldn't help but notice that despite having the same energy and rhythm, his music sounded… flatter. As in, it didn't have the same care nor heart put before.

He was overreacting, he told himself. It was none of his business to mind what Francis was going through. Nevertheless, it still worried him. Francis was there playing in the mornings when he left for work, and again during the evenings when he returned. At last, when he woke up on Saturday to the sound of the saxophone again, he decided to fuck it and give him a piece of his mind.

Arthur stood by Francis as he continued to play a tune; a different one. He didn't seem to notice him. Arthur drew a deep breath in.

"Hey."

The tune stopped to a halt. Francis blinked, as if he was going out of a trance. He spun his eyes around.

"Ah. Hi!" Despite attempting to create a friendly air around him, Arthur noted that he looked a bit more worn out than usual, with his dark eyebags and his slightly unbrushed hair.

"Francis, I-I think that you should go take a break."

"Hm? Ah, sure." He sounded distracted. Francis disassembled his saxophone, and sat onto the bench. Arthur did the same. He twirled his thumbs. He doubted that just a single request would prompt him to stop immediately.

He drew a deep breath in. "What I'm saying is that it's bad for you… o-or that you need to watch out for your health as well. Erhm, you can't just force yourself outside all the time." Jesus, that sounded forced.

From the way Francis blinked to the way he controlled his breathing, Arthur could tell that Francis was nervous. Shit, did he go too far?

Francis drew a breath in. "Alright. I… I understand," he muttered. "I'll keep that in mind."

Keep that in mind…

The energy in the four words reminded him of a time when he was depressed.

Or maybe he was overreacting. He tended to nitpick over tiny details.

Arthur sighed. "Sorry, I tend to overreact."

"Thanks for your concern, but truly, I'm fine!" The atmosphere seemed to become tenser. Unlike their previous conversation, this one was like stepping onto a minefield.

"What? I'm sorry, do you not want to talk-."

"I am _fine_."

The tension became so thick, one could slice it with a knife. He blinked. Even Francis was surprised over how harsh that came out.

He heard Francis draw a breath in. "It's fine."

A silence brewed between them. It wasn't a comfortable silence, but instead one with a heavy fog of tension and restlessness as more time went on. To leave now would be impolite. How the hell could he say anything after saying that? Fuck, it was probably a mistake to go out in the first place.

What hurt more was probably the fact that Francis was hiding all this, pretending that everything was fine. "You can't hide it forever, you know."

"What?"

Arthur regretted saying that. In the end, he decided to fuck it.

"You could keep all of it in, but it'll just poison you, damage you, and just fuck you right up. And you have to face this problem one day, or else it'll ruin-"

"Alright, _ALRIGHT_!"

Time froze.

If the tension wasn't thick before, it was now. They stood, both shocked at Francis' outburst.

Time moved again when Francis breathed out. "I need to go now."

And he crossed the road towards the apartment block.

Arthur's words echoed again and again in his skull as he climbed the stairs.

 _"You could keep all of it in, but it'll just poison you, damage you, and just fuck you right up. And you have to face this problem one day, or else it'll ruin-"_

He was fine.

He was just a bit down. He was alright.

It wasn't like his life was at risk or anything. It wasn't like he was fundamentally depressed. He was just down.

Even if he was… depressed, it wasn't like his case was the worst. There were many other people worse off than him, his own situation should go away quickly.

When he entered the apartment and closed the door behind him, he collapsed onto the couch and rubbed the bridge of his nose.

As he sighed, he realised how spent he was. Maybe he should go take a break.

Take a break.

Take a break and do nothing all day while whittling away a whole day from his life.

He felt… lazy. While everybody else was working on their own breakthroughs and milestones, he was simply just floating around in time. Each second from his whole life was ticking away while he was lying down, all while everybody else was working hard on their own projects.

What could _he_ do? Busk? Was that all he could do all day? To play music out on the streets, practically begging for attention?

He busked to pass the time, it was just a hobby, he told himself.

Just a hobby.

Was that how he was going to spend the rest of his life? Playing music out on the streets? No.

Francis was surprised at the harshness of his own words. When did he start to think like that? Nevermind. It wasn't often in which he mused about his use of time, either. But with his current situation, it wasn't surprising why he would.

Was that who he was now? A lazy, negative, ungrateful person who needed constant attention? Who didn't even have a proper job, but instead a _hobby_?

Everybody were busy with their own projects. Antonio with the musical, Gilbert with his job, and now Arthur with his book. Shouldn't he be busy doing something as well?

* * *

 ** _Prepare yourselves, folks, it's gonna get a bit more self deprecating later on_**


	7. Chapter 7

_**Just a head's up, this chapter contains strong themes of depression and questioning of self worth, so you may want to turn away.**_

* * *

Francis stared down at his quiche and lentils as Gilbert blabbered on. (Something about a virus on his company's computer software) He stuck a fork into the quiche and bit into it. It lost a bit of the flavour from the previous day, though he could still taste a tinge of refrigerator and the tomato's zing.

"So yeah!" Gilbert slammed his fork down onto the table, jolting Francis awake. Gilbert rubbed his temples. "Ugh… Jesus _fuck_."

"Oh, and my the way how was your day?" He added in while he took a bite out of his quiche. "Any luck at finding another job or…"

Francis waved the fork in a gentle dismissal and put on a smile. "Haven't really been searching lately. I've been busking as a hobby for a while now."

"Ah. Cool." Gilbert was still clearly thinking about the virus, sure, but the dismissive tone still stung.

"Hey Gil? I know that..." and then Antonio began to talk words of encouragement with Gilbert.

Francis fiddled his meal around with his fork. He had tried to spend the afternoon writing music pieces, but gave up. He kept on messing up the technicals- the key of the piece, the bars, and especially the quavers- as well as the fact that it took too long, anyway. It was a wonder how there are people who could remember how to properly do all these yet still create masterpieces like nothing.

Meanwhile, he could barely even transcribe melodies. Such a shame. And he had spent so much on music theory back at uni as well.

By then, he had noticed that Antonio started to talk to Gilbert. Gilbert seemed to be in a better mood already.

"Ah, yeah, that's actually a pretty good point. Thanks!"

"You're welcome! Anyway," Somehow, the rest of Antonio's words seem to blur up after that.

Somehow, a sinking feeling reawakened within his chest while he saw Antonio and Gilbert chat. He stood up.

"I'm just gonna go out for a bit." Antonio glanced towards Francis, a concerned expression appearing onto his face.

"Now? But it's so late!"

"I'll be back soon."

He grabbed the keys, his coat, and went out.

* * *

The cold London air blew as his breath turned to smoke in the cold night.

Francis wandered around the park as the sound of the city played in the background. Everything was so different in the park at night.

There would've been so many sounds in the day. In the night, it was so quiet that the wind seemed loud. Even with the blowing wind, the empty rustling of the leaves and litter, and the distant car honks which filled the silence, without the sound of people, it was just… empty.

The night dyed everything in the park into a stale slate grey, where the city lights couldn't reach. The ruby and amber shades of the trees, the sky unlit of stars. Even the small circles of light around the lamp posts just dyed things an almost bleached white.

He sat onto a bench lit up by a lamp post, and listened to the empty rustling of the leaves.

Walks usually cleared his head. The cold air chilled his lungs as he took a deep breath in, and turned his breath into smoke in the lamp's light.

He had taken more walks in the park, in hope of that it would clear a solid weight that lied in his chest. And for a split second, it disappeared.

Who was this? He wouldn't take long walks in the park at night. He wasn't the type who embraced solitude. So why? Why was he doing this?

He hated it.

Everything he loved was tainted with grey when he was like that. It was this weight that knotted deep in his gut, this vacuum of a despair. It ate everything around him, like a black hole. Even the sound of the leaves crackling under his boots were muted.

Was he useless?

He wasn't a creator, but instead a performer. One who was not capable of deep thoughts.

A chain of bad luck plagued him when he first arrived in London. Abandoning a job opportunity for a drastic change, being held back from success while his friends flourish…

Being jealous of other's peoples' success instead of being proud like how he would had, _should_ had.

What was wrong with him? He was just getting sad and depressing at other peoples' milestones as a result of this!

 _Seeing the world through rose coloured lenses does not help with that_ , a voice in his mind told him.

Was it even helpful to see the good in things when everything around was crumbling apart? Would it be helpful to pick up the pieces even when you knew that the rest would come down anyway?

He busked not because he loved performing. He busked to seek self validation.

So _selfish._

Why was he so selfish?

He snapped himself out of his thoughts. No no, he busked because he wanted to do something useful with his talents while still technically helping people.

 _See? A selfish need for self validation._

He did it because he was bored.

That was it. That was the reason why he should do what he did. Because he was bored.

He stopped himself right there.

When had he become so… _needy_?

Selfish. Needy.

Where would he be without his friends? Why was he being so selfish while he was having everything served on a silver platter?

Not _everything_.

He wasn't that dependant. He still went out, lived his life.

 _Lived his life ignoring his problems, pretending that they would go away by themselves._

Wait, no no, that was the problem. He was so… _negative._

A negative air had started him wherever whether he wanted or not. It unconsciously played in his mind whenever he saw someone else succeed, whenever he was alone, while talking to people sometimes, even.

He was not himself.

Was this a new Francis? Was this who he was now? A self decaptrative, selfish, ungrateful fake?

Perhaps it was best to hide all this. Perhaps it was best to continue pretending that all these problems were gone. After all, what if he did tell anybody this?

Everybody would see who he was; a deadweight, a fake only pretending to care about other people for the sake of manners.

That, or they'll feel sorry for him, care for him even more, to the point of poisoning and ruining other peoples' lives, further proving that he was just needy, selfish, and useless.

Everyone around him were so, so much better than him. Antonio could choreograph dances, Gilbert's coding was the backbone of softwares, Arthur could create stories...

What could _he_ do? Play the saxophone? It took him hours to transcribe a melody, let alone write one.

He sighed. They deserved so much better.

His eyes started to feel dry. He yawned.

What time was it?

He cursed when he realised that he had left his phone at home. _See? you couldn't even remember to bring it._

More thoughts spun around his head as he went back to the apartment. He took deep, controlled breaths in, and breath by breath, he felt the cold London air chill his lungs. Breath by breath, the weight of the vacuum shedded off of his chest.

The brief feeling of weightlessness was a point of relief. And for while, he just walked.

His life spiralled down that far down when he came to London.

Should he return to France? If he returned to France… no, he could not just go back to France. Antonio and Gilbert chose to move to London with him. It wasn't….

Was it fair?

His mind wandered: what if he did go back to France?

He thought back to his mother and Lisa. Paris always reminded him of them when he thought back. Paris probably had less careers anyway; he should already be replaced in his previous job. What use was it to go back?

Before he knew it, he was in front of the apartment door. Based on how dark it looked on the inside, Gilbert and Antonio had probably already gone to sleep.

He fumbled out the keys, and unlocked the door. As the door creaked open, as he had expected, the dark, empty living room greeted him back.

He sighed. It was probably very late already.

Closing the door behind him, he left the keys on the top of the table, and went to the bedroom.

Sure enough, Gilbert and Antonio were fast asleep in the top bunk bed and the sleeping bag. He climbed into the lower bunk, closed his eyes, and drifted into an empty sleep.


	8. Chapter 8

He woke up. For a moment, he enjoyed the brief tranquility of the morning.

A heavy weight weighed him down shortly afterwards.

There it was _again_. It wasn't the residue drowsiness of waking up, even though was present also. The feeling from the previous night hadn't cleared up as much as he hoped.

Aside from the weight, Francis realised that his drowsiness was actually much more imminent than he had thought. His eyes and mouth were dry, his vision was blurry… What time was it?

Francis reached for his phone, and turned it on:

 _8:26 A.M._

It was? He was surprised how he still felt drowsy, even when it was so late in the morning.

By now, Gilbert should've left for work already, and judging from the sounds from the kitchen as well as the aroma of fried eggs and coffee, Toni was up as well.

He rose up, but bumped his forehead onto the bunk above of him, causing him to rub it while he hissed.

"Morning, Fran!" Antonio called out from the other side of the door.

"Hm? Ah, morning!" Antonio must've heard the sound of the bump. Aside from that, he heard the jingle of keys. Was Antonio leaving already?

"I need to go to rehearsals now. Hey, Fran, are you going to get up or…?"

"Probably not right now." He faked a cough. "I don't really feel that well."

"Ah! Do you need me to stay behind or…"

"No no! It's fine. Just a small cold." Wow, was he bad at lying. Toni didn't seem to notice as much.

"Alright! Take care of yourself! Remember, breakfast's on the table, and there are some leftovers in the fridge! Have a good day!" And then the door slammed shut.

Silence followed afterwards. Francis sighed out a breath of relief as his head hit the pillow.

He tucked himself into the duvets and closed his eyes. His mind wandered back to his musings from the previous night. Maybe he _should_ be taking a break today. Maybe he _was_ pushing himself too hard. A break. It didn't sound too bad. Just for today. And then maybe he could resume tomorrow. Sleeping in felt really nice…

* * *

Some very heavy construction was probably happening next door.

Not surprising. The room next door probably needed to be fixed.

He cracked open his eye as the tapping went on. Jesus, when will that person stop hammering the nails?

Confusion clouded his mind as Francis remembered that no, the other room was actually occupied. Panic struck him like a whip when he realised:

 _Someone was at the door_.

He yanked off his duvet, but cursed when his forehead collided with the top bunk. As Francis rubbed his head, he got out of bed pulled up the pair of pants he wore yesterday. The knocking seemed to grow louder at every knock. His fingers fumbled as he tried to button up his dress shirt, so he abandoned that out of frustration and donned a T-shirt.

He rushed into the living room, and flung opened the front door. Only to find no one waiting on the other side. Francis scanned the area around, just in case-

It was Arthur who looked back at him from the corridor.

He looked like he had just left. In his haste in answering the door, he hadn't realised that the knocking had stopped. Francis straightened his shirt as he straightened himself.

"Sorry, did I catch you at a bad time?" Arthur asked.

"No no! It was fine." In truth, he was exhausted, but Arthur probably had to say something important if he came over. "Excuse me for being a bit slow," Francis muttered. He gave out a nervous chuckle to ease out the tension, but it only seemed to increase it as Arthur peered at him while nodding slowly. Judging. An uneasy feeling crept up on him.

"You… you sure that you're OK? Or…" Francis nodded. In truth, no. He was _exhausted_. Arthur just nodded more. Otherwise, his expression was still the same, and it nerved him. Or was it just the jitteriness of not getting enough sleep?

"Anyway, I'm here to apologise. For, for yesterday," Arthur said.

The sudden change in attitude surprised him. Just then, Arthur was judging him, and now he was apologising? Nevertheless, he cleared his throat. "Apology accepted," he replied as calmly as possible.

Arthur cringed at how easily how neutrally and easily Francis accepted the short apology. "I… didn't mean to push it that far the other day." Francis nodded, but stayed silent and neutral. The way that Francis let it slide so _much_ bothered him. It was like as if he was staying still in fear of being rude. In fear of stepping out of line. It was as if he had a million things to say, but he was just too afraid to say them.

"You know, it's fine if, if you have to be honest or something."

"What?"

His mind froze. Did he overjudge the situation, and mistook it for something else? Did he not speak too clearly? Or was it just his nerves getting the better of him? He took a deep breath in to calm down.

"I'm just saying that it's fine for you to not always be courteous for the sake of manners. I-I was a bit of an ass the other day, so… yeah."

Francis looked back, confused. Judgemental, even. _Crap_. What did he expect? For Francis to agree on every single word he said? Good god, no wonder he was such an ass.

"Anyway, what I'm saying is that I'm sorry for pushing you that far yesterday." Deciding that he had said enough, he turned around, and said: "bye."

"Wait, wait!" Arthur turned back to Francis.

Said person took some deep breaths in. "You… had a point. I accept your apology, but honestly… I'm OK. I'm just a bit down."

 _I'm OK_. It bothered Arthur to no end. Even the words _I'm just a bit down_ had a profound effect. It reminded him of himself once, when he was absolutely _paranoid_ of showing weakness, and in turn it caused bottled up emotions to poison him into irrationality and hopelessness. Screw being sensible, he should just say it.

"Yeah. Problem is, "being down" is just code for saying that you're depressed."

"What?" A confused expression plastered his face.

"You have to face the truth one day." Francis turned away. "The sooner you solve this problem, the easier it'll be-"

"I know-!"

"No, wait, if this problem persists, then-"

" _Fine_!"

"Francis, listen to me-!"

"SHUT UP!"

He bolted back as Francis screamed at him. Francis' eyes were filled with frustration, and straight out almost animalistic _anger_. But the emotions melted away just as quickly as they had appeared. He widened his eyes out of shock, and the snarl on his face relaxed completely.

Arthur had never seen anybody's anger melt to regret so quickly before.

They stared at each other as time froze, both shocked by the outburst. Francis' pants were the only things that filled in the silence after that.

He turned around as silently as possible, away from Arthur, eyes filled with a distant look of fear. From the way his shoulders were hunched over, he could tell that he was hugging himself. Arthur was about to step closer when he stopped himself.

But the way Francis held himself was unnatural. He was too silent. Too inatimate. The silence was absolutely _suffocating_. His fingers were trembling violently, in which he stopped by digging them into his arms. In fact, he couldn't even hear him _breathing_.

Arthur heard a hiccup. One of Francis' hand moved up to cover up his mouth. In fact, he had dug his fingers into his arm so much, skin had started to peel off.

He knew that feeling all too well. Francis was struggling not to _cry_. Because of _him_.

How could he?! How… he stopped himself right there. Despite the good intentions, it was this way of thinking that had caused this. His tendency to overjudge. Why was he like this?

He realised that he had been so caught up with his words that he failed to notice that Francis had retreated away from him. Arthur opened his mouth to apologise, but stopped himself right there.

He had said more than enough words today. Disappointment and frustration surged within himself. He should've just apologised and left it at that! He… no. That wasn't the point right now.

Walking away towards the door, he glanced back. Francis was still in the same position as before, frozen. With a heavy heart, he closed it and walked back to his apartment.

The apartment walls muffled the choked sobs, but he could still hear them clearly, even from the corridor. He moved away faster.

It wasn't his place to listen to them.

* * *

 _ **Things should get resolved next chapter, so stay tuned.**_


	9. Chapter 9

He decided to rest for the rest of the week.

After a couple of days of resting and thinking instead of constantly having to push himself out to busk, he actually felt… better. Not completely healed, but better. Pretending to want to busk was tiring, anyway.

Over the past couple of days, Francis had reflected. He busked so that he could feel useful. Other than that? It was mostly because of the fear of doing nothing, _being_ nothing, even. After he realised that those thoughts were irrational, it was easier to think about the problem.

Francis sipped the mug of coffee that rested in his hands as it rained outside. It was a calming silence somehow.

It was not uncomfortable like the silence of the park. The park's silence was a void that consumed anything and everything. Maybe it was something to do with the addition of the pitter-patter of the rain, the refrigerator's low hum, or the ticking of the clock, but it was soothing.

When he finished his coffee, he placed the mug into the sink, and sat onto the couch. He soon realised that he had sat on his folder, and pulled it out from underneath him.

It was quite bulky, so much so that the pages were sticking out. He had bought it sometime during June. As he flipped through the folder, he noted that there were only three empty pockets left.

Francis leafed through all the adagios, the concertos, and the gavottes before pulling them out of their pockets.

Without a second thought, he closed his eyes and ripped them. All of the music sheets that he had printed, marked, highlighted over the course of weeks, months even, gone in a matter of minutes.

At last, he let go of the last piece of paper. Ripped paper littered the floor around him. Only two music sheets, Autumn Leaves and In a sentimental mood, remained in the folder's front, pieces that Francis had never found the heart to throw away, despite the age.

He didn't know how to feel after tearing apart the music sheets. One one hand, he was irked at how he had destroyed so many perfectly good music sheets. On the other… he was… _relieved_.

As he cleaned up the scattered mess of sheets, a thought crossed him that maybe he should apologise to Arthur. He had toyed with the idea of doing so, but it had only remained as an idea. Even now, Francis wasn't sure if he was ready to apologise.

On the other hand, today he had been feeling much better today. It wouldn't hurt too bad, right? He grabbed the keys and left the apartment. Now would be a good time to do so.

* * *

Since that encounter with Francis, Arthur had found that his writers' block had returned.

His head was clouded by regret, so much so that the fuse refused to light. No matter how much he turned his thoughts away, it was still there. The regret hung onto the fuse, like glue. He knew why- ever since the last time they had seen each other, Arthur couldn't help but feel guilty.

He should've stopped himself just before the actual argument happened. Was _he_ the reason that Francis had actually been forced right up to the edge? In fact, was Francis even unwell in the first place? He was disgusting. He shouldnt've intervened at all.

Arthur shook his head, and focused back onto the computer screen. To his dismay, he found that he had wasted 15 minutes from thinking about Francis.

He growled and slammed the laptop screen shut. Writing had always been a source of comfort for him. Back when he was a kid, so why couldn't he do that-

A quiet knock pushed him out of his trance. Who was that? His mind mingled with the possibility of Francis, but he shut it down. Why would Francis want to see him at all, especially after how he treated him?

A peep through the peephole proved otherwise.

On the other side of the door was Francis.

Panic started to rise up within him. Sure, he knew that one of them had to apologise to one another sooner or later, but never in a thousand years could he have dreamt for it to happen at all!  
Nevertheless, he took a deep breath in, straightened his shirt, and answered the door.

Francis glanced up, and smiled at the sight of him, but forced it down.

"I know you're mad at me, but-" A raise of a hand by Francis signalled him to stop. Francis took a deep breath in.

"I'm… I'm sorry… e-excuse me." Was he going to apologise? He said it so quietly, Arthur thought that his ears were playing trick on him. "For..." He took a deep breath in and cleared his throat. After he raised his head, Francis made eye contact and said:

"I'm sorry for yelling at you the other day. I- didn't know what got into me, so… so yeah."

Arthur was stunned. Francis apologised for something he wasn't even responsible for! He glanced to the side. How should he respond? He couldn't just say "apology accepted" and leave it like that, especially when Francis had mustered up so much courage to come apologise. That would be cheap _and_ assholish. Jesus, why couldn't he think straight in these situations?

"No no, it's not your fault. I… we were probably both at faults, but honestly it's not your fault that you, e-exploded and whatnot. Erhm, it's natural? Jesus Christ, I'm sorry, I…" He took a deep breath in as he rubbed his temples. All the things that he had felt over the past couple of days were building up, and his nerves were starting to get the better of him. If he wasn't careful, his emotions would build up like water in a dam and overflow. "I shouldnt've stuck my nose out of your business and shit. I'm sorry for being a such bloody arse and judging you and seriously, I-I was so scared that I fucked you up permanently, ugh, I'm so sorry, Jesus, ugh _fuck_!"

A wave of panic crashed onto him as the dam walls burst.

And once it burst, it just wouldn't stop flowing. LHe could feel his breathing become more and more shaky as he took deep breaths in. His head started to throb, his heart was hammering against his chest, and his hands were clenched so much that they shook violently, his whole _body_ shook, in fact. But those were all overshadowed by the sensation of tears pricking at his eyes.

He hung his head down. He was crying. He was actually _crying_! The disgust of it just made him cry harder.

At this point, everything around him started to close onto him, and his surroundings started to spin as nausea overcame him.

Suddenly, he felt himself being lead away from the hallway back into his apartment. He felt the couch's edge at his knees, and collapsed down onto the couch. The couch shifted as he felt someone else sit next to him- Francis.

"Try taking in deep breaths, OK?" Francis instructed as Arthur sat down. He drew in a deep, shaky breath before exhaling, and breath by breath, he felt more and more in grips with himself.

Breathe in, breathe out.

"That's it. It'll be over soon, I promise, I'm here for you."

He repeated it like a mantras until slowly, but surely, Arthur's crying slowed down.

By the time he was done, he was absolutely exhausted, and his cheeks were probably red hot. He must've looked like a mess right now.

"Here." Francis passed him a handkerchief which he took.

"Thanks," he muttered as he wiped away his tears and mucus with it.

Francis stood up, and grabbed a folded blanket that sat on the other end of the couch before unfolding it.

"Lie down," he calmly instructed. Arthur lied down, and Francis laid the blanket onto him.

"Sorry, I tend to get terribly emotional."

"It's OK, it happens to all of us. Rest for as long as you need to, OK? Do you want a drink or…"

"Sure," he muttered. "The tea's in the first cabinet at the right." At this point, he was too tired to care about his pride and whatnot. He heard Francis walk into the kitchen, and rummage through the cabinets.

"Which kind?"

"Chai."

As he lied down, he could hear Francis busy in the kitchen.

He sighed. It had been awhile since he had been taken care of like this.

A thought crossed into his mind. Was it fair? Francis had came to apologise, and now he was making tea for him. Christ, that wasn't right at all.

Furthermore, why did Arthur cry when the situation wasn't even about him? Who even _did_ that?

Maybe he shouldnt've just let his emotions loose like that, and make everything about himself. He should've controlled them more, and then they could've left the apology cleanly.

When Francis came from the kitchen carrying a mug of tea, he sat up, and took it.

"Thanks."

"Feeling better?"

"Yeah. Thank you." He was about to take a sip when he stopped. When Francis cried a couple of days ago, he just _left_ him without another word. This time, when he himself cried, Francis not only lended him a handkerchief but led him inside and took care of him, even after all the shit he put him through.

He snapped out of those thoughts. But what if those thoughts were wrong? What if it was just his habit of overestimating situations? Arthur's head started to spin. Drinking the tea would be ignorant. Rejecting the tea would be rude-

"Are you alright?"

Arthur glanced to his side at Francis, who looked at him, concerned. By then, he realised that he had been staring at the tea for awhile.

He placed the tea onto the table, and sat up straight. After taking a deep breath in, he closed his eyes and thought of what to say.

Arthur took a deep breath in, and fiddled with his hands. "It's… it's just not right for me to make you cry last week, and now you're here apologising for something that's not even in your control. And... now you're making me tea and lending me your handkerchief and overall just being much more kinder than you needed to be and just treating me decently even after all the shit I put you through last week _._ " Frustration started to pent up inside of him as Arthur held his hands tighter.

He felt a pat on his shoulder, and glanced up towards him. Francis smiled at him reassuringly, with no hint of disgust whatsoever, and he felt a bit relieved.

"Arthur, look. Oh one hand, I did all this, because honestly, nobody wants to be left alone and uncared for, everybody needs a shoulder to cry on and…" he stopped his words when he remembered about Arthur's earlier words.

"Alright, you made a mistake the other day, but I understand. To be honest, I-I don't think that I would had accepted an apology from you after I broke down and such, anyway."

"Ah." Arthur nodded at his words. "Makes sense. But it doesn't dismiss the fact that I've been practically verbally harassing you and whatnot."

"Harassing?" Francis gave out a small chuckle. "Bit extreme, don't you think?"

"Hm. I, I suppose. Excuse me, I'm sort of at this shitty level of asshole and care-too-much, so… yeah. I just overjudge things too much." There was a brief pause from Francis after he said that.

"Arthur, look, I… forgive you. It was a mistake that you made the other day and so on and so forth. Erhm, maybe I was at faults as well since I should've been more… more clear about what I was feeling. Point is, it's past us now, alright?"

Arthur was still hesitant. Here Francis was trying his best to give him advice and such, but it wasn't working as effectively as the other had hoped.

He heard Francis sigh, and he looked towards him. Francis looked down, dejected.

"To be honest, I probably _needed_ to face what I was going through, anyway."

"What?"

"You were right the other day, I couldn't just bottle up my emotions and problems and expect them to go away. I… bottled them because I thought that I'd hurt people if I was open about them. And now…"

"Wait, no no, it's not your fault either. It was something you couldn't control at the time…" Arthur remembered about how he was upset over his mental breakdown. It was something that he couldn't control either, and somehow, he felt… better about it. "Sort of like how I broke down today." Francis nodded, and he stroked his chin as he thought.

"You exploding and me exploding as well were out of our abilities, so maybe we could apologise over the things we _do_ have control over. Hang on." Francis cleared his throat, and waited a bit before starting. "I'm sorry that I wasn't clear about how I was feeling. I was scared that talking about the bad things I've been feeling would, well, scare people away if you know what I mean. And… maybe I could've told you that I didn't want to talk about it." Arthur nodded.

"I'm… sorry for judging every single thing you did and pressuring you. I did it since it worried me alot to see you clearly bottling up your emotions, since…" he paused. He glanced over to Francis who listened on. Good god, this was going to be embarrassing. "You're… a… well, erhm, friend of mine, and I… hate to see you like that. I… sort of have a fear of being ignorant, so... that sort of adds to it." Friend. Huh. He never thought that he would use that word.

"Well, maybe if you're worrying too much over me next time, you could ask "are you alright?" or something like that."

"Yeah, and you could reply with "I don't exactly want to talk about it" if you have to, cause honestly, we only just met two weeks ago and such and such." Francis snickered a bit.

"Feeling better now?"

"... A _lot_!" Talking about how he felt actually made alot of progress. "Though… there's still the thing about your job, and me about constantly overjudging everything. I… couldn't help with that, I apologise."

"Arthur, look, I think that it's OK not to be always be informative since, well, we are people, and there are things that we don't know. Besides, you tried to help all you could over the last week, even if it doesn't always turn out well. Well… I _could_ go see a therapist if I have to."

Arthur thought. "Hm, I know this one therapist near here. Here," he grabbed a loose leaf of paper and a pen before scribbling down an address and passing it to Francis. "She's quite nice to talk to, and her office's really close from here. Actually, I think that I'm overdue for an appointment, anyway."

Francis looked at the address, and smiled. "Alright, I'll think about it!" The whole room seemed to lit up as Francis smiled, and Arthur actually felt… happy.

Francis and Arthur bit farewell. As Francis walked up the stairs, he let out a content sigh. The conversation with Francis today had cleared, dissolved the solid weight that had built up over the last couple of days, until it was lighter than air. He felt _free_.

Too long had it been since he had felt this way.

When he headed back for the tea, it was lukewarm. Arthur didn't like cold tea, but he could let that pass for now.

* * *

Dinner was tense.

Over the past few days, he had been more clear of what he had been feeling. As a result, Gilbert and Antonio, usually loud people, became more and more quiet.

What was usually a time of hearty conversations and recounts had turned dead silent. Francis knew that it was because though he tried to hide what he had been feeling, it radiated a poignant air that you'd have to be blind to miss.

He put down the fork, to which they looked up towards him. It was so quiet, even the tap of a _fork_ was enough to catch Gilbert and Antonio's attention.

"Francis? W-we've been, erhm, noticing that you were…"

"I know." Toni had never been the type of subtle comfort. At those two words, Gilbert and Antonio perked up. He sucked in some air, which helped ease tension. It was now or never.

"I've been feeling a bit depressed-"

" _What?!_ "

"Look, I've been… been, ugh." He started to feel tears prick up in his eyes. Antonio handed him a box of tissues, which he gladly accepted.

"Thanks." After taking a moment, Francis said: "I've just been feeling a bit, well, erhm, u-useless?" It was much harder to say the word, especially since Gilbert and Antonio were the literal reasons he felt that way. "It's just the way that I get to hear how your days are going, while I don't have a job and such. I-I'm much better now, but… yeah. I've been feeling this way for awhile now."

"Fran... " Antonio was about to say something, but all words were lost. "W-we're so sorry."

"To be honest, I should've told you this earlier." They nodded, though there was uncertainty in their eyes.

"Is there anything, _anything_ at all that we could do to help?" Gilbert asked.

"Well… maybe… you could try not to talk as much about your jobs…" he started to realise a flaw. In turn of him having to not feel as bad, he was asking Gilbert and Antonio to hide their emotions- the very thing that made _him_ depressed. "But it's more regarding to me as it is regarding to you all, so, erhm, try not to take it too personally. Hm, maybe… maybe I could try out therapy for awhile."

"Ah. Sure. We'll think about it."

* * *

 _ **It's important to talk about your emotions with close friends/family in terms of mental health, since bottling them up just causes bigger problems later on.**_

 _ **I couldn't help but notice that there were not a lot of comments over the last few chapters. Feedback, plz?**_


	10. Chapter 10

_**Just some quick Christmas fluff for the holidays :) The bolded lines are the phone dialogue, btw.**_

 ** _João- Portugal_**

 ** _Angus- Scotland_**

* * *

Just as swiftly as the transition of November to December, Autumn left and Winter arrived.

The snow had a delicate magic to it. It turned whatever it touched into something sublime and enchanting. The park's trees had long lost its leaves the previous week, but this morning, a blanket of snow had covered the park so that it was like a piece of Narnia had dropped into London.

"Anything else on your mind, Francis?" The therapist asked.

"Erhm… no, actually," he replied. It was actually the first time in a while that he had meant it when he said those words.

"Alright, fantastic!" She said with a smile, and they shook hands. "I think that you've made quite a lot of progress over the couple of weeks! I'll be visiting my family back in Suffolk, so I won't be here for the rest of the year, sadly. Are you planning to do anything for Christmas?" she asked as Francis grabbed his coat.

"Not much. I'll probably just Skype my dad and such. One of my friend's brother have a Christmas party going on at their place, so I'll probably be there."

"Sounds great! See you next year! Merry Christmas!"

"Merry Christmas to you too!" And then he left his therapist's office.

Dr. Turner was a therapist who Francis saw every two weeks. Even though this was only their second session, Francis was starting to feel better already.

Her office was across a mall near the apartment block, so as he walked through it, he could hear the Christmas cheer everywhere.

Carollers were singing the carol of the bells, a Christmas tree that touched the ceiling stood proudly in the centre of the room, a line of children lined up for a mall Santa, and people carrying bags of wrapping paper as well as toys and other gifts buzzed like bees. A violinist who busked outside of the mall played Silent Night, and Francis tossed a shilling to the violin case.

It was even snowing a bit, just enough to dust the people in snow, but not too heavily as to cover people up with snow entirely, which added to the nice Christmassy atmosphere.

Very soon, he made it back to the apartment. The apartment was decorated with tinsel and Christmas lights. Gilbert plugged in the Christmas lights, making the Christmas tree in the middle of the room light up.

The TV was showing Home Alone, while on the couch, he could see Antonio chatting with his (recently declared) boyfriend Roderich.

"Hey Fran!" Antonio called out. Gilbert, on the other hand wasn't as certain.

"Ah, Fran! Erhm… how was the therapist's?"

Sure, Francis had felt better, but ever since he had told him about his anxieties, Gilbert had started restraining everything that he said.

"Gil, it's fine, you don't need to censor everything you say. I wasn't being completely honest with myself over the last couple of months, so I'm trying to do so right now. I'll just remind you whenever I want the topic to be changed. OK?"

"Hm, kay." Gilbert still seemed distracted. Francis sighed. He was a perfectionist, and hated causing problems.

Before he could answer, there was a knock on the door. While turning the doorknob, a small part of him wondered if it was Arthur. Turned out, it was Antonio's brother, João, who had came all the way from Portugal. He greeted him, and went over to the sofa before promptly going into a lengthy conversation with Antonio.

As Francis stood, and looked over to Antonio with João and Roderich, he realised something.

Arthur on the other hand lived alone, as far as he could tell. He never mentioned much family, either. Was Arthur spending Christmas alone?

He walked into the bedroom, and dialled Arthur's number.

 **"Hello?"**

"Arthur! Hi! We're having a Christmas party at a friend of mine's, do you want to come?"

 **"Erhm… no thanks. Parties aren't exactly my thing."**

After some more small talk, (how were you, etc) they hung up.

Francis thought. Maybe he could go over to his apartment, but then there was the Christmas party over at Ludwig's house, and he didn't want to miss that. On the other hand… how alone _was_ Arthur? Maybe he could just give him a gift or something.

He knew that Arthur liked to read, but his bookshelves were full, and besides, it was sort of a predictable present. Arthur wasn't great at cooking, so maybe he could cook him something. Maybe a casserole? They still had more than an hour until they needed to be at Ludwig's. Yes, that sounded good.

And so he got to the kitchen and got to work.

* * *

Watching re-runs of Doctor Who while embroidering and sipping hot chocolate was a good way to spend Christmas, in Arthur's book. He wasn't the type who got too festive of anything, he just hung up some tinsel and called it a day.

He held up the embroidery hoop, and examined the piece of embroidery. The blanket stitches hadn't worked as well as he had hoped, and were a bit wide for his liking. Again, the satin stitch-

A knock on the door distracted him, and he stood up. He was pretty confident that it was Francis, though he wasn't sure why he was here, especially so shortly after a phone call. He took a deep breath in. The worst case scenario would probably be Francis accusing him for not wanting to go to the Christmas party, though he reasoned with himself that it'd be insanely unlikely. The best case scenario would be that Francis decided to spend Christmas with him or something like that. The most likely thing would be that Francis decided to drop in for a quick "Merry Christmas", maybe even give a card or a gift or something.

As per with his third prediction, Francis was standing at the door carrying a casserole pot.

"Hi, Arthur!" He greeted before handing him the pot with a smile. "Merry Christmas."

"Ah." He took the pot. Even with the lid closed, he could smell the savoury content of the pot, and it smelt absolutely mouth watering. "Thank you. Erhm, wow, you didn't have to give me a casserole." Francis smiled, and shrugged.

"It's the least I can do. I have to go now, unfortunately. Bye!"

Arthur waved while Francis walked away to join with another small party of people. Arthur looked down at the hallway, and then down at the casserole, still warm in his hands. It had been awhile since he was given a Christmas present. Sure, there were still the Christmas cards given by that overly festive co-worker, but otherwise, it had been awhile.

He brung the casserole back into his apartment and onto the table. Actually, it had been awhile since he had something close to a proper Christmas dinner. During Christmas, he usually went out to eat, whether if it was at a fancy diner or at a takeaway place. The last time he had a proper, hearty Christmas dinner was…

Was…

Seven years ago.

Had it really been that long? Wow. Seven years. Almost an entire decade.

He grabbed a dish and opened the lid. The tantalising aroma of hot lamb, rosemary, potatoes, and peas flooded the room immediately. His mouth watered. It smelt delicious!

A memory popped in his head. One year during Christmas, Angus tripped on the cat and fell into the trifle. He snickered at the memory. Mum wouldn't let the cat sleep on the dining room floor after that.

After he put some of the casserole into the dish, he noticed the way the potato slices were arranged so that they overlapped like fish scales. His own mother would just stack them.

He blew the casserole piece on the fork, and ate it. A million memories of Christmas during his childhood flooded his mind.

It tasted good. It tasted like home.

Arthur went on to finish half the casserole, and put the pot into the fridge. While he did, he wondered: shouldn't he give Francis a Christmas present as well?

He thought. What would Francis like as a present? Something music related, maybe? The stores were closed already, so if he was to give him a present, he would had to improvise. He definitely couldn't give him something cooked, hell no. Well he did have books…

There was this book he bought earlier in the year. Arthur walked over to his bookshelf. He had only read it once or twice, so it should be somewhere at the bottom shelf…

Ah! There it was wedged in the bottom. He pulled the book out, and brushed the cover.

For a second, he wondered if it was a good idea. Was he really going to give him a book? At least the casserole had effort put into it, this book was pretty much just something he pulled out of his ass.

Arthur took a deep breath in. The shops were closed, and he couldn't think of anything more suitable as a present. At least the book wasn't at the same calibre as, say, gifting Francis a used napkin or a plastic bag, at least there was _some_ thought put into it. Besides, the book was still in a pretty good condition.

After reminding himself of those things, he felt better about it, and went out and headed downstairs.

* * *

"Hey, Fran, I think that this is for you or something," Gilbert called out as he came back from collecting mail the next day.

"Hm?"

"Here. It's from that Arthur guy." He handed him a book with a post-it note stuck onto it. A book from Arthur? Huh. The cover had a blue trombone on it. The reason that Arthur had picked this one was probably because it was about trombones, which was somewhat close to saxophones. Sure, Francis didn't like trombones more than saxophones, much less know how to play one, but he appreciated that at least Arthurĺ tried to pick something that peaked his interests.

"Thanks, Gil." He read the note:

 _Hi, I found this book while rummaging through my things. It's a book about a girl with sound-colour synesthesia, and it's quite an interesting read. The shops were closed, so I wasn't able to get wrapping paper, I must apologise. By the way, thank you for the casserole._

 _Merry Christmas,_

 _Arthur_

He flipped the book over, and read the summary. Reading books were not exactly his thing, but the premise sounded interesting. He reached for his phone:

 _Thank you for the book!_

A few seconds later, there was another text:

 _You're welcome :-)_

* * *

 ** _The book, trombones are blue, is a real book, by the way, though it is a WIP by Wild Rhov. Thank you, Rhov for letting me mention the book!_**

 ** _I'll be taking a bit of a hiatus to figure out what's going to happen in the next couple of chapters, so no chapters next month, unfortunately. But on the other hand, thank you for the comments last chapter!_**

 ** _Happy holidays, everybody!_**


	11. Chapter 11

_**Emma- Belgium**_

 _ **Vash- Switzerland**_

 _ **And… Brass in the grey is now back in action!**_

* * *

A month had passed since then.

Since he and Francis started therapy, they had slowly, but surely, started to get better. Francis had started to become more forgiving of himself, and had started to become less and less stressed, while the same could be said to himself. To be honest, Arthur was glad to see Francis starting to get better and become more content. Sure, he didn't busk as much as before, but otherwise, he was glad that he was happier.

By then, Arthur met Francis' two roommates, Antonio, a choreographer, and Gilbert, a coder. They were still somewhat stiff around each other, but otherwise, they were alright acquaintances.

On the other hand, he got his writing swing back. Even though he wasn't proud to admit it, crying the other day had collapsed the dam that had filled up his mind, allowing it to be free to muse and properly write again.

All was well. Until that email from last night came.

" _What do you mean by that?" he asked. Tanner shrugged._

" _Figure that one out for yourself, I suppose." Annoyance filled him immediately. was clearly drunk. The pungent smoke of tobacco filled the air as he lit his cigar, causing Owen to throw into a coughing fit and forgetting to clarify with him what he actually_

"Ugh, FU-" He stopped when his plate shattered onto the ground. Realising that it was quieter, Arthur glanced up, and saw a lot of the other bakery customers staring at him. One of the co-owners of the bakery, Emma hopped forward with a dustpan in her hand and set to work on sweeping it up.

"You know, Arthur, maybe you could ease it up on the intensity next time," she suggested as she sweeped. "This is the second-"

"Third," her husband Vash called out.

"Yes, third plate already!" Arthur nodded.

"Right. Sorry about that," he apologised as he rubbed the bridge of his nose. "I tend to get riled up when I write sometimes. For, for the scenes and such." For such a stereotypically stationary job writing was, his experiences had proven otherwise. Emma nodded.

"Hm, very well. Maybe try some of the calmer scenes next time, and maybe work on your language. There are children here, after all," she jokingly said.

Arthur nodded, though he knew that it wasn't exactly the scene that got him riled up this time. Rather, it was an email.

Angus had actually sent him a wedding invitation, and the sheer anxiety over it was enough to steer him out of focus.

He had a feeling that there was an ulterior motive to it. Why would Angus want to invite him back now? In fact, why at all? He was far from the forgiving type in the first place. Maybe he planned some sort of revenge. Again, it had been 6 years since Arthur had seen hair or hide of him, maybe he had changed. His brother was the farthest that he could consider as a suitable groom. Maybe he had matured and forgiven him or something like that.

How was he now? In fact, how was his mother, Dylan, and Peter? How much had him running away affected them? Or had they already casted him off of their family? Both of them seemed frightening. This anxiety still gnawed at him sometimes, and the wretched email just awokened them all at once.

Arthur arrived at the bakery alone today. Usually, him and Francis would meet up at the bakery every Sunday, but he usually had his appointments on every other Sunday, (his own were on every other Monday) so they met up every other Sunday instead.

He left the bakery and walked back to the apartment block, shivering while he wrapped his scarf tighter. He hated the cold, and being cold in general. Sure, Winter was pretty, but he'd rather be in his apartment with the heating, all snuggled up in a blanket while reading _Farenheit 451_ and sipping hot tea.

When Arthur arrived at the apartment block entrance, he saw a familiar face on the opposite end of the street walking nearer, and felt excitement.

"Francis!" He greeted, and said person smiled.

"Hi!" Francis looked up and down Arthur's outfit with amusement. "I take it you don't like the cold?"

"No," he stated, annoyed. He noted that Francis was wearing much less compared to him, with his woollen peacoat and his thin, stylish scarf. Arthur, with his thick parka jacket and his Dr. Who scarf, looked like a ball of winter gear compared to him. "And… I take it that you're immune to it."

Francis gave out a short laugh. "I suppose. Well, I thought that you Brits would be more used to the cold, given that you're all further up north," he joked.

He dryly laughed as they walked up the stairs. "Well, yeah, but it doesn't excuse the fact that the cold's a piece of shit."

They kept on talking until they reached the floor where Arthur's apartment was, where he stopped. Can he invite him over? It was a good opportunity to talk more, especially about the wedding invitation.

"Is something wrong?"

"Erhm, nothing. I.. I have nothing on for the rest of the day, so… do you want to come over? Or…" Francis' look of confusion got replaced with a smile.

"Ah! Well, me neither, so sure."

Arthur nodded, and they walked into his apartment, and took off their coats and scarves. After they sat on the couch, Arthur twirled his thumbs as he crossed his legs. Bringing the wedding up was a bit too straightforward, so…

"So. How was your appointment with Dr. Turner?"

Francis raised an eyebrow. "Well… she suggested for me to take note of one positive thing each day or something like that. We're… also sort of thinking about medication."

"Ah. Never tried the 'note one positive thing each day' thing before, but… yeah, I took medication. It didn't exactly help, for, for me at least, so… I just sort of…" He grimaced. He wasn't exactly proud of it. " Stopped."

Francis noticed that whenever Arthur got nervous, he tended to fidget more, evident by how he fiddled with his posture and eye contact.

"You know, if talking about therapy's making you nervous, maybe we could change the topic," he suggested.

"Hm? Ah… erhm, sure." Arthur put his leg down and stayed stiller, though by the way he chewed his lower lip and how he looked around, he was still a bit nervous.

"Oh right! Tea!" Arthur realised. "Excuse me, what was I thinking?" He stood up and walked to the kitchen. "What kind of tea would you like? I don't have coffee, sorry."

"Hmm… mint, please," he replied. Arthur responded with a 'kay', and set to work.

And suddenly, it was a lot more quiet. He could hear the bubbling of the heaters, but otherwise it was quiet.

His eyes fell on the bookcase that stayed at a corner of the living room brimming with books. A biscuit tin as well as neatly stacked cloth and book boards were placed on the desk near it.

Cloth? Book boards? He remembered about the embroidery that Arthur worked on sometime during Christmas. Does Arthur embroid and bind his books?

He walked over, and true to his thoughts, his books all had embroided covers. That, or they were new or worn out. Arthur had an impressive collection of books, and to think that he embroidered all of them… wow. He personally tried embroidery once, but gave up from how slow and frustrating it was. Some of the books even had personalised covers, like how a corner of _Fahrenheit 451_ was cut off and embroiled with flames to give an illusion of burning. Francis pulled another book out.

The parchment yellow cover of _The Scarlet Letter_ was embroidered with the same red thread as its namesake, with the brilliant A stitched intricately.

He placed the book back, and looked at some other books. All these books had the title and authors' names on the bottom of their spines. His eyes went over all the names of popular authors, but one name caught his attention in particular-

Arthur Kirkland.

Francis knew that Arthur was a writer, but it was still a bit of a shock to see his name amongst other well known authors. There only seemed to be one book, too. Driven by curiosity, he took the book out. Unlike most of the other books, this book- _Edgar Vinn_ \- still had its original cover. He opened the book:

 _London was a dump._

 _Sure, they say that the streets were paved with gold, but this street was paved with nothing but cobblestone, litter, filth, and people. To be rich, you lived off of the streets. For people such as me, you had no choice but to live on it._

 _I had an edge, however. I have supernatural abilities_

"It's peppermint with- HOLY SHIT!"

Francis whipped his head around, and saw Arthur wide eyed and stunned.

He placed the book back into its space in the bookshelf. "Ah, sorry, I-I was just curious." Arthur blinked, and placed the teapot as well as the cups onto the coffee table.

"Ah, no, that's, that's alright. That's… just my old shitty writing, that's all." He gave out a nervous chuckle to ease out the tension.

"Ah. Alright, I understand. I think that it's good, though," he brought up. Arthur nodded, but was still unconvinced.

"Welp, tell that to the critics," he muttered while he poured the tea, the wintery aroma drifting out as he did so. Francis frowned.

"Did they leave out bad reviews? Or…" Arthur gave out a dry laugh.

"Yeah. They thought that it was too dark and such. Frankly, I agree. It was just plain edgy." He wrinkled his nose in disgust. " _Ugh_." He picked up his cup and blew it before sipping it. To be honest, Francis agreed a bit. Even from the first couple of sentences alone, he could tell that it had a pretty cynical and pessimistic tone, which he personally wasn't a big fan of.

"Well… it does not necessarily make it bad, I suppose," he reasoned. Arthur paused. He drew a deep breath in, and huffed.

"You know what? How about let's talk about something else? Ugh, bloody hell, that book makes me want to throw up."

Francis nodded. From how Arthur talked about his book, he talked as if it was a mistake. He felt a bit sorry. Apparently, writers spend blood, sweat, and tears to tell their stories, not unlike many other artists. He remembered how Antonio would stay up well past midnight, eyes red and coffee cups stacked upon his desk, refining his dances over and over again until they were _just_ as he envisioned them to be.

The tea was infused with honey, he noted, which was probably what Arthur was going to say earlier.

"By the way, the embroidery on your book covers are beautiful." Arthur spat the tea back into the cup.

"What?! Oh, erhm…" He looked around, alarmed as he exhaled, and Francis swore that he could hear him internally screaming. "Thanks. I just find random pictures on the Internet and just embroid them, though, I'm not that creative," he said with a laugh.

"Still, I think that it's pretty impressive, anyway, to be able to stitch all that. I'm not that patient myself." Arthur nodded while he looked to the side, and he swore that he saw him flush.

"You alright there?" He joked. Arthur nodded.

"Yeah, I-I'm good. I… just sort of did embroidery for fun and… yeah."

Francis nodded, and they drank some more tea. "So. Any new books in mind? Or…" Arthur put his cup down, and but his hand under his chin, as if debating with himself.

"It's alright it you don't want to talk about it." Arthur drew a deep breath in.

"It's about this violinist who tries to get to Vienna but ended up in New York City instead. It's still a work in progress, and… that's all i've got so far."

"Can I have a look at it?"

" _No_." Francis was a bit taken aback, but nodded, and continue to sip his tea.

Again, the atmosphere turned quiet afterwards. Arthur shifted. That response was probably a little harsh. On the other hand, he probably should say something. But what? He tapped his forefinger onto his knee. Come on, think think think…

He saw an advertisement somewhere the other day. It was advertising a jazz display going on at the British Museum. Maybe Francis wouldn't mind going there with him. Arthur reminded himself that sure, Francis liked jazz, but it wasn't like it was his whole life or anything, he had other interests as well. Ugh, fucking hell, he was overthinking again, screw this.

"Hey, I think that there's a jazz display going on at the British Museum right now, do you want to come?" Arthur mentally kicked himself. Why did he always have to say whatever was in his head after deciding not to give a damn? Of _course_ he-

"Hm? Sure."


	12. Chapter 12

**_Anyway, I decided to drop the italics for French part in this chapter since :P_**

* * *

The ride on the tube was relatively peaceful. As he and Francis rode the tube, Arthur realised that it had been awhile since he had been to the museum.

It had been the first place he went to when he arrived at London. He scoffed. London seemed so much grander back then, a metropolis of opportunities. Funny that, compared to the jungle of concrete and greys that he sees now.

Shortly afterwards, they arrived at the museum, a large banner of the display proudly hanging at the entrance. The display itself was dimly lit, apart for colourful spotlights that lit up the different displays and museum labels to give an illusion of a jazz concert. There were not a lot of people there, and the people there were reading and looking at the displays, so it was relatively quiet lest for quiet jazz music from throughout the ages that played over the speakers.

It was a lot quiet here than Arthur had thought. The most sound here were the music, and even that was toned down. He also thought that there would be a lot more instruments and albums on display, but on the contrary, he could see other mix of items as well. Music sheets, interactive screen displays, etcetera.

There were a load of information regarding to technical aspects of jazz in the display as well, like how accidentals can affect the music drastically.

The two wandered around a bit more, until he and Francis met up again at an interactive screen display about how jazz music could change one's state of mind.

As Arthur put on the headphones, a quote on the screen caught his attention:

 _Jazz is something you have to feel, something you have to live._

 _\- Ray Brown_

He thought to the time Francis said that music was an international language, and remembered how vibrant his saxophone playing was. Truth be told, he missed how expressive Francis' music could be quite a bit. He missed his music a lot in general.

He mentally jotted that quote down. It could probably become a pretty good theme in his book. Even if the instruments weren't the same, the same essential theme of music was still present.

The interactive display showed various clips of MRI scans when the patients gets exposed to the music. Aside from jazz, there were also other music genres to compare it to, like folk, classical, and pop.

They watched on together as the vibrant colours of the scans morphed and according to the music as the text explained the science.

He rubbed his nose as he watched the classical music scan. "Well, I've heard that, that listening to classical increases brain activity by 20 to 25% and whatnot," he commented, trying to start a new topic. He looked over to Francis, who he could see nod to the music, but seem a little distracted. Said person nodded, and yawned.

"It's 20%, actually," he replied.

"Ah, yeah, that." They watched on as the interactive did its thing where it displayed the technical aspects featuring scales and arpeggios and sharps and such, which all contributed to how the music sounded. He whistled as he marvelled at the complexity.

"Do you have to remember all that?" Francis shrugged.

"Pretty much. Perks of music theory, I suppose." Arthur grimaced and nodded.

"Geez."

"We definitely don't study MRI scans, that's probably something for psychology. Music theory's much more boring than that. " Arthur smiled and nodded at his comment. The interactive was simplified enough for anyone to understand it, but he could still sense the subject's complexity that laid beneath. It was similar to how differently phrased sentences can evoke different emotions, but at least it could more precise in it that it whad words, while music seemed to be more like a stab in the dark.

Either that, or it was like learning another language. He thought about his book. While the main character was indeed a musician, he didn't feel like researching too deeply into music theory.

"My, that's unfortunate," he joked. "Is it hard to write music or…?"

"Ah!" Francis looked to the side and smiled sheepishly. "Well, I've… I've never exactly tried, though." He inhaled a hiss, and scratched the back of his head. "I've never liked writing music, anyway. Playing it's better."

Arthur nodded. "Same for me, I suppose, in, in a way. Writing's sort of like constant trial and error until you find that sweet eureka moment." He exhaled as he crossed his arms. "Though writing's sort of more of an applied craft, I suppose? Erhm, playing music? It's… it's…" he looked at the floor while he tried to find the right words. "Sort of more like narrating, I guess."

"Arthur?"

"Hm?"

"It's fine," Francis reassured with a smile and nod. The pressure seemed to slip off from his shoulders. "No need to explain everything, I get it!" Arthur sighed a breath of relief.

To be honest, it felt nice to be reassured. To feel alright just the way he was, even if he jumbled up words sometimes when he spoke. He thanked him, and focused back on the display, absorbing the information presented.

He glanced over to Francis who stood, nodding his head to the music, his eyes with a distant musing. There was a distant glaze in his sight, though, like he was thinking of something. Arthur noticed how he smiled in a way that told him that he was bored. Arthur took off his headphones, and looked around the display. The only reason he suggested coming here was because this was a jazz display. Suddenly, he felt cheap. He just barely suggested going here in an attempt to interest him, when in reality, Francis probably knew all this before.

"Shit, I'm sorry, is this boring to you?"

"Hm?" He raised his eyebrows when he realised what Arthur had meant. "Ah!" His smile disappeared, and he grimaced as he exhaled. "I… went here yesterday, actually."

"Yesterday! Jesus, you could've just told me, at least!"

"You seemed a little eager. I didn't want to disappoint you, so I agreed."

"Really? Huh." He tucked his hands into his pockets and looked to the side. That was pretty considerate of Francis, though he was still a little mad over the went here yesterday thing. "I… didn't want to bore you too much, either, the conversation, I mean." He inhaled a hiss. "I saw a poster and… yeah. Thought that you might like it." He bit his lower lip. Hearing his speech falter, he took a deep breath in to calm down his nerves, which didn't work too well. The tension was already growing thicker for some reason, even when he wasn't even trying to make it tense.

Arthur glanced over to Francis, who didn't seem too iffed by Arthur's response.

"Ah! That's actually pretty considerate of you, I suppose." Francis shifted to the side and stood, cross armed, tapping his other forearm. "You know, how about let's not make too big of commitments, since it seems to stress us too much. How's that?"

"Yeah, yeah, sure, sounds good!"

Arthur sighed a breath of relief when he saw him relaxed. To be honest, he was glad that it wasn't too big of a deal, and that it didn't end in a total disaster.

"In the meantime, let's just enjoy the rest of our time here."

"Sure." He glanced mischievously towards him. "Next time get concert tickets, though."

Arthur rolled his eyes and pulled up a bit of a smile. "Sure. But don't be surprised if the seats aren't the best," he joked.

"Oh, and by the way, one of my roommates has a musical that will premiere in a couple of weeks, do you want to come see?"

"Erhm… depends. What's it about?" Francis looked to the side, and thought.

"Hm, I'm not too sure how to describe it without spoiling too much. It's somewhat like… phantom of the opera meets pirates of the Caribbean?"

"Phantom of the opera meets pirates of the Caribbean? What, is it called phantom of the Caribbean?" Francis snickered.

"Good one. It's called Doubloon. Though it's more of something like pirates of the opera based on what you're saying."

They shifted to the next stand, and read up information of John Coltrane. Arthur glanced over to Francis. Said person was skimming over the museum labels, and clearly thinking, from the distant look on his face. It was a good kind of distant, as in a musing about a thing sort of distant, and the fact that a small smile was forming supported that. He breathed out a sigh of relief. Francis didn't seem too mad after the short conversation. Arthur reminded himself that he was probably being a bit irrational, and that he shouldn't concentrate too much on him, so he looked away.

Without the headphones on, he could hear that Francis was quietly humming to the music (he actually had quite a good voice, sort of a velvety voice similar to those singers from the 50s).

"You know, I used to listen to this all day," Francis started.

"What?"

"When I was a kid, I found some old jazz records in the attic." He smiled at the distant memory. "And this was the first one."

Arthur nodded. "Huh." So this was the music that had Francis get into music. He could see why. With its elegant, calm melody, it was fitting. He noticed how there was a piano in the background as well, and wondered if Francis got into piano as well.

"Hey, so can you play the piano?" He asked.

"Hm? Ah," Francis looked to the side as he stroked his chin. "Well… I could play some parts of Für Elsie off the top of my head, I suppose."

"Ah, nice, I suppose." He looked at his fingers before tucking them into back his pockets. It was hard to play it in time, especially when both of his hands were involved. "I could barely play heart and soul. Honestly, I have no idea how pianists are able to play so well." Francis nodded, and they focused back to the display. "My way of getting into writing was not that mystical, though," he joked.

"Hm?"

"I saw some really shitty movies as a kid. Thought that they were really bad, and yeah, I rewrote them the way I wanted it to go."

Francis raised an eyebrow, and snickered.

"Mon dieu. Even as a child, you were cynical." Arthur shrugged with a sheepish grin.

"Old habits die hard, I suppose."

They were only meant to tour the jazz display, but at the end of the day, they toured the museum for the rest of the afternoon, admiring the fossils, the artworks, the artefacts.

For someone as quiet as Arthur, Francis had never thought that he would be able to say so much. As soon as he went to the main displays, he seemed to lit up and talk about trivia. Obscure, but still somewhat interesting.

"You know, Greek hadn't changed much over the last couple of centuries, so I think that Greek people can still read texts by the Ancient Greeks or something like that."

"Bad teeth was sort of seen as attractive back then, hilariously enough, cause it was sort of like this symbol of wealth."

"You know how the Ancient Egyptians believed that cats were sacred and stuff? There was this Roman soldier who accidentally killed one, and he was executed… I-I'm sorry, am I, am I being too rambly?"

"No no. Go on!"

Furthermore, he was actually… happy. As in, smiling, whether he realised that or not. And it was nice to see. Sure, he wasn't the biggest fan of historical trivia, but it was nice to see Arthur finally completely relaxed and actually comfortable rather than tense all the time. It was finally relieving to see Arthur enjoy himself for once.

Even after leaving the museum, Arthur was still going on about facts about Tutankhamun. He didn't mind. It was nice to see Arthur actually happy for once, and he didn't want to interrupt that enthusiasm. (In fact, when was the last time he had actually seen Arthur this enthusiastic?)

"Anyway, yeah." Arthur let out a sigh of content as he looked back. "The British Museum. First place I went to when I came here."

Francis nodded, touched by Arthur's passion for the place.

A harsh whisper grabbed hold of him. He came to London to get away from Paris. After his mother and Lisa died, he just… came here and… he didn't even remember. It had a lot of crying involved. He didn't want to remember. A feeling of dread crept up on him.

"Francis, you OK there?"

"I'm just thinking about things."

"Do you want to talk? Or…" He shook his head, and Arthur nodded in understanding.

"I'll try sort it out, don't worry."

Of course, he just cried after he came to London. He just cried. He just got away from Paris like the coward he was just to cry over family he didn't even-

He took a deep breath in. It was alright. He was just shocked at the time. Sure, he made a mistake of not going to their funeral, but beside that, he was shocked. He moved out of Paris from fear.

As he and Francis made their way to the station, he couldn't help but notice how silent and still Francis was. His brows were furrowed as if in deep thought, his eyes had a glazed look, and he was pretty still. He didn't even flinch when the snow fell onto his bare head.

"Hey." Francis blinked, snapped out of his trance.

"Hm?"

"You're gonna freeze your head if you keep on leaving it exposed like that." He brushed some snow off of Francis' hair and lifted up his hood.

"Thank you."

"You sure you don't want to talk about it?" Francis glanced to the side, then shook his head.

"Alright. Talk to Dr. Turner about it, alright? Or, or either Antonio or Gilbert, or just write it down somewhere."

Francis raised an eyebrow. "Alright, then."

The ride back home was a little friendlier. Calmer. To be honest, Francis was glad that Arthur tried to help with his situation, even when he wasn't fully sure what was bothering him. Reminding him to talk about it… It was nice to have someone try to help him regardless.

On the way back, they conversed a bit more, and it was… nice. After they greeted farewell, and Arthur reminded Francis to talk about his worries, he closed the door and fell back with a contented sigh. The trip to the museum actually went better than he thought. He realised that he had forgotten to address to Francis about the wedding, but shrugged. Oh well. Today went well enough that this barely bothered him.

He hoped that Francis was able to talk to someone about what he was going through. Hopefully.

* * *

Following Arthur's advice, he was going to talk to Antonio about it, but changed his mind when he saw an incoming Skype notification from his laptop.

As expected, it was his father, and they discussed to each other about their week like usual.

Francis thought back to how Arthur suggested talking to someone about his worries, and now was a good time. It was more than just his worries. This was about the death of his mother and fiancée. Heartstrings within his chest tugged painfully. He was surprised that even after three years, the pain still felt raw.

 **"Francis?"** He heard, and he breathed in.

"Dad. Do you… you…" Tears we're starting to prick at his eyelids. Not wanting to cry in front of his dad, he grabbed a nearby piece of paper and a pen.

 **"Francis, what's wrong?"**

After he finished writing the note, he looked away and held it up:

 _Do you miss mum sometimes?_

The sound of empty air was his only response. For a second, he was afraid that he was going to hang up. He heard the shifting of a chair against wooden floorboards, as if his father was adjusting his seating.

 **"Sometimes,"** was his only response before he faced silence.

He bit his lower lip, still afraid to make proper eye contact. "Dad… I'm, I'm sorry that I left right after Mum and Lisa died."

He went back to his constantly musing face, the face of a lawyer at work. Francis grimaced at the many frown lines that appeared on his face, and suddenly, his dad, the backbone of his family, seemed to age 10 years. He exhaled.

 **"The past is in the past. You needed space. I understand."**

True, his father was not the best to consolidate to, but he had a good point. Straight after the car crash, he just wanted to get away from Paris. From France in general. Not knowing a language other than English and French, he went to London.

"But it wasn't right."

 **"It happened. We all needed our own ways to cope."** Frank glanced to the side and sighed. **"But whatever happens, you're still my son. Don't forget that, alright?"** Francis nodded.

 **"Alright. Maybe… you could come back to Paris for a bit. Properly say goodbye and all that."**

A weight seemed to drop off from his chest as he looked up.

"I'll… think about that."

Pause.

 **"You're smiling,"** he noted.

"What?"

 _"_ **It's just that you've actually been happier than usual," he replied. "I'm glad."** His expressions remained neutral, but there was a glimmer of content in his eyes, and a ghost of his smile on the corner of his mouth, but it said a million things. I'm glad that you're starting to move on. I'm happy that you finally don't seem tired.

"Really?" He didn't notice that, though it was true that he had been more content over the last couple of days. "Yeah, I've been starting therapy. And I'm… glad that we've talked." He twirled his thumbs around. "You know, my week has been alright. Went to a jazz exhibit today with my friend Arthur today, so that's a highlight."

 ** _"_** **Arthur? Your old penpal?"**

"No no, that's Angus."

They talked for a bit more until they decided to call it a day and disconnected. Francis was surprised at the pang of pain in his chest. Even after three years, the wound still felt fresh. Maybe it was because he had never let it heal.

The wound wasn't completely healed, nor was the pang in his chest permanently gone, but the conversation felt like a long overdue surgery stitch in place, and the pang in his chest had started to dilute.

The savoury smell of pisto filled the air as Toni brought in the dish, and Francis felt his mouth water. The two began a conversation, and then Gilbert walked in.

Gilbert watched as Toni and Francis conversed, and heard 'Arthur' slip out quite a bit. He waited until they finished, and attempted to start another conversation with: "Geez, you've been spending a lot of time with Arthur now, haven't you?" He started, attempting to join in the conversation. Francis looked towards him, and shrugged, before continuing to talk with Toni.

Ouch. Talk about a cold shoulder. Francis had been spending time with this guy named Arthur. And ever since then, it had always been Arthur this, Arthur that.

Ever since he had started seeing this Arthur guy, they had actually started seeing each other less and less, even though he had barely known Arthur for like, what? A month?

A year ago, they were perfectly fine as friends. Hell, they had been friends since they were kids. Now he won't even talk to him about his worries. What happened? They had known Francis better and longer than Arthur had. Shouldn't it be the other way around?

When he and Toni washed the dishes, he expressed his concerns to him. He was expecting Toni to nod and agree like he always did, but this time, he was a little more quiet.

Toni sighed as he dried a dish. "I dunno, Gilbert, he seemed to be happier since he met Arthur-"

"Ugh, good god. Arthur this, Arthur that, seriously, what kind of merit does this guy have?"

"Merit?" He placed the dish onto the stack.

Gilbert shrugged. "I dunno, it seemed a little fishy that Francis would be fine, and then talk about all this mental health stuff the next."

Antonio had to cling onto the washcloth instead of the dish to resist the urge to crack it. Had Gilbert really been this blind?

"Are you blind? Francis wasn't fine. He used to take long walks in the night until 2am, he'd barely eat a morsel of food, he-" Gilbert scoffed.

"Toni, everybody go through those moods sometimes. It's fine," Gilbert shrugged as he rinsed the dish with soapy water. "Everybody goes through those moods. They usually last like a month, tops, and usually they just solve themselves. Don't get yourself too worked up over something as basic as that, alright?"

Fine? Basic? He had to draw in deep breaths through his nose to calm down. How could he? How could he say something like that?

But one thing that stopped him from saying any more was the everybody. Out of all of them, Gilbert was the one with the thickest skin. To him, what Francis was experiencing was probably normal.

He felt a smooth, wet surface touch his skin, and saw the plate being nudged towards his arm.

Toni sighed, disappointed that he had nothing to add, and went on to dry another dish.

* * *

 _ **oH MY GOD IM SO SORRY IT TOOK SO LONG but on the plus side it's three times longer than usual :D**_

 _ **Part of the reason it took so long was because I couldn't figure out exactly how to characterise Gil. I was sort of indifferent to him, and so he was gonna be a lot more douchey, but then he became a fave, so I was like: ",,,,,, well,,,,," Hopefully this should be the right amount of it**_

 _ **Anyway, sorry guys, it'll probably be around three more weeks before another chapter comes up, since I'll be away during that time. I'll try to write more drafts, so hopefully you all don't have to wait as long after that!**_

 _ **Thanks probablysomebody for beta reading this fic!**_


	13. Chapter 13

_Doubloon_ was about a duke getting rescued by a bunch of pirates. The musical was being played at a small independent theatre nearby. It wasn't West End, but Arthur thought that a small theatre was appropriate and made sense, given that he didn't see much advertising around the city.

At present times, Arthur watched the performance play along. So far, it was… average. Fine, the choreography and music was good, (it did give this phantom of the opera mixed with _pirates of the Caribbean_ feel) but the story was clichéd with god so many plot holes. Perhaps if the leads' motivations were expanded upon, or if the macguffin was erased, maybe it would improve.

He looked to the left, wanting to talk with Francis, but to his dismay, he was busy talking and joking with Gilbert. An empty feeling ebbed into his chest at the sight of those two chatting without him. Arthur enjoyed quiet, lengthy conversations over sporadic shots of humour, but seeing Francis enjoy his chatter with Gilbert so much made him wonder if Francis saw him as a bore. Arthur told himself that Gilbert had been a friend of Francis' for years, so it was natural for them to be his close. Also, everyone acts differently to different people, it was a fact of life. It was just like how he didn't like to talk to his workmates too much. To his relief, the gap left by his anxieties was filled. Fuck his self doubts. Shrugging the emotion off, he focused back forward and snacked on his packet of crisps.

A few minutes after the production ended and the audience left, Antonio came out of the backstage area, panting and carrying a water bottle.

"Nice job, by the way!" Gilbert slapped his back and gave Antonio a thumbs up. Antonio nodded as he removed his bandana, his fringe sticking to his sweat slick forehead.

"Yeah," he huffed, and took a swig from his drink bottle. "God it was hard to dance in this!" He gestured his outfit. While the outfit didn't include the traditional pirate coat, he still wore a frilly dress shirt, and a beaded velvet sash, which contributed to the bulk.

"I could see why, with the…" They turned towards Arthur. Arthur looked around them, wide eyed, and nervous. He looked towards Francis, and he gave him a reassured nod. After taking a break to compose himself, Arthur continued with "I could see why, with the, the beads and all that on the sash."

"Ah!" Antonio nodded. "Yes! Though if I didn't have the beads, I don't think that I would've standed out that much in front of the crowd." Antonio looked down towards the beaded sash, and twisted his waist a little, frowning. "Again, I think that I tied it a bit too tightly. Bit too restricting, you know! Maybe they can just be elastic next time."

Arthur sighed a breath of relief at his response. Antonio was going a bit off topic, but he was glad that stuttering didn't garner too much attention.

* * *

"Geez, it's a shame that Rod had to stay behind," Antonio muttered when they left the theatre. "That theatre director's nuts, I swear! So. Where are we going tonight?"

As they walked and talked, Arthur nursed in this atmosphere. In the street lights, the trees were already beginning to sprout green leaf buds out of their seemingly dead branches. He liked Spring, it was a season of new beginnings, of moving on. Black ice crunched under their boots as the sound of cars and the blowing wind brushed past their ears, creating a musical quiet. He shivered. Though it was Spring, it was still quite cold. Should've brought a thicker coat or something. Arthur watched as the trio talked, their busy chatter cutting through the quiet. Maybe he could join, but he didn't feel like tangling himself within the speedy conversation, and would rather watch. Noticing Arthur's withdrawal, Francis caught his gaze, and turned towards him.

"Arthur, do you want to join in?" He suggested.

"Hm? Ah, no, I don't have anything to add." He huffed, and gave an awkward laugh, hoping to lighten the atmosphere. Francis smiled and nodded, before Gilbert asked him something and tangled him back into their conversation. He himself would rather watch from the sidelines, especially since he had nothing to add. He wished that he was more friendly and extroverted so that he wouldn't be as much of this sinking rock. He sighed, watching the cold air turn his breath to smoke.

When they arrived at a lively bistro, they sat at their tables and ordered some food and wine. Arthur was going to ask for some ale, but shrugged it off. He didn't like wine, and would rather have ale. Despite all those talks about how sweet wine was, all he could taste was bitterness.

When the wine came, Arthur considered calling the waiter back for some ale, but he didn't want too much commotion, so he pushed the wine glass to the side and poured himself some water. However, he half cursed himself when he saw that Gilbert had ordered himself some beer. Nevertheless, he stayed put. The waiter had gone, and he didn't feel like calling him back in front of the whole restaurant. Water it was, then.

"So," Toni started as he sipped his wine. "What did you think about Doubloon-"

"Congratulations!" Francis barged in. "Seemed only yesterday since you've started it!" Antonio was a little dazed at his speediness, but continued.

"Heh, true." Antonio swished his wine around a bit. "Honestly I'm surprised that we even got it done on time!"

Francis smiled and nodded. But the feeling of content inside of him became absent. Instead, there was a hollow feeling. Yes, it _did_ seem only yesterday when Antonio thought up with the idea. Hell, it wasn't even a serious idea as well, just something that came up during dinner.

Something wasn't right. Didn't he abandon that mindset already? He hadn't thought in that way for months, so why did it come back?

He heard an applause and some cheers, and turned around to see some people tuning and assembling instruments on the makeshift stage. A jazz band? Huh, that was new. There used to be this piano player who sang and played songs while they wined and dined, now replaced with a jazz band for some reason.

There was a saxophonist that waved and smiled at the audience as he tuned his saxophone. Up there, smiling, waving… That could've been him. There was an opportunity right there, and he missed it- he shook it off. In an attempt to soothe his nerves, he turned to the front and fiddled with his thumbs. Antonio was attempting to start a conversation with Arthur who stayed quiet, with Gilbert watching along. Gilbert and Arthur glanced towards him, making him look away and sip some wine, the cool temperature distracting him from his nerves. He put the wineglass down, but some condensation on the side of the glass made it slip, spilling onto his white dress shirt and dyeing it purple.

"Geez, better get that cleaned up," Gilbert muttered. Francis nodded, and rushed to the bathroom.

Seeing how Francis reacted so flatly and neutrally to the wine spill made Gilbert sigh. Francis had changed a lot in the past few months just because of his job dilemma and not doing anything with it. And because of that, he closed up. He wanted to give him a pep talk to stop dwelling on it and move on, actually finding a job if he wanted one so much. He noticed Arthur raising his head towards the direction Francis went. Jealousy boiled up within him at the sight of his concerned face. Were those two so close now that Arthur was more concerned to Francis than himself?

"I'll check on him," he declared as he stood up before following him to the bathroom.

The red wine stained the white porcelain basin as he wrung out his shirt's front and ran it under the tap, scrubbing the cloth together. He frowned when he saw that the colour, though now a light mauve shade, spread out further. This was a white shirt as well, a colour prone to being stained, so the colour was there permanently. Maybe it wouldn't be as noticeable if he dyed his entire shirt purple.

After wringing the last bit of water out, Francis turned to the mirror and rubbed the bridge of his nose. There were job opportunities and he didn't even see it. He could had solved his unemployment issue by now. If he had continued searching for job opportunities, if he wasn't so lazy-

He was being drastic again, he reminded himself. It was fine. It was fine. The band was probably formed earlier, much earlier, months, maybe even years ago, not just slapped together for this evening.

The thought of a couple of months ago or years ago made him reflect. How was he during that time frame? He remembered feeling useless that he wasn't able to do anything. That he was a sinking brick, that he was this negative sentient who easily sucked away joy. Now that he thought back to it, it was… strange. Especially when he hadn't thought in this way in a while. Relatable? Yes. Understandable? Yes. But now it was like hearing the story of another person, another person who needed some reassurance that their situation wasn't as bad as they thought it was.

So was this feeling still applicable to him now? There was a separation between his current mindset and that thought. But he was disappointed at his reactions tonight. He thought that he was beyond this now. That he had made progress-

His head snapped up when the bathroom door opened. It was Gilbert, his expression neutral, but he knew that he was concerned from his stiffness and focus on him.

"So. Rough night, huh?" Gilbert asked.

"Pretty much." He realised that he sounded tired. Gilbert rubbed his neck and looked around, unsure.

"Is this the job thing again?" He asked, using a quiet, careful tone that he had honed over the weeks. Francis nodded.

"Yeah." He faced the mirror again. In it was the reflection of himself and Gilbert standing at the doorway. Gilbert shifted.

"Well, why don't you try searching for a job again? No use just moping around and doing nothing, you just need to figure out what you want to do, I suppose, He suggested with a joking lilt. Francis rubbed the back of his neck, half sighing, half frowning at Gilbert's reaction.

"Well, I've been doing that for the last couple of months. Not much luck so far."

"Oh, really? Huh." He saw Gilbert cross his arms and tap with his forefinger as he thought. Was he not aware? Gilbert tapped the back of his neck as he rubbed it, as if thinking of something. He was too nervous, he needed to loosen up a bit, know that it wasn't as big of a deal.

"Well, it's fine-"

"Fine?" Gilbert spat back, making Francis tense up at the harshness. A look of concern replaced his face, and he sighed as he rubbed the bridge of his nose.

"Look." His tone was somber, deep, and lacking its air of humour. "I… actually, nevermind." Sure, Gilbert was organised, and was the brains out of the three of them, but he was never good at dealing with emotions.

"Nevermind?" Gilbert continued to rub the bridge of his nose, thinking.

"Yeah."

"But how come you stopped looking- ok, that sounded stupid, erhm, what I was meant to say was why you took a break if you wanted a job so much."

Francis raised his eyebrow at Gilbert's change in tone, but he on the other hand stood, arms crossed, head in a questioning tilt, detatched from this serious question.

"... Well, it was… it was more based on _why_ I wanted a job." Gilbert's eyebrows furrowed at his response while his tongue pressed against his cheek's inside. "Antonio had his musical, you had your coding job… and honestly, I felt, well, lazy. I felt like I was this heavy weight and that I was wasting time and that I was stupid for only being able to smile and nod as you both ramble on about how your work was while, I, I was staying home and doing absolutely nothing. So yeah. I wanted a job because I felt guilty not to." Francis was surprised how fresh that hurt still was. Gilbert exhaled.

"That's why I took a break. I didn't want to push myself anymore. But even if I have a job right now, I doubt that I would like it too much."

"But now… you're still jealous of those other guys?" Francis glanced towards the outside of the bathroom. He could hear the jazz band doing another number.

"I don't know. I… saw them, and I thought to myself that maybe I could've already had a job if I searched hard enough." He realised something. Was performing onstage the only goal he had? "To be honest, I'm not even sure what I want to do."

"Well… erhm, ok, ok. Let's go back to square 1. You started playing the saxophone because you thought it sounded nice, right?"

He thought back to what he wanted to do when he was a kid. dreamed of performing in front of a crowd. Possibly at this bistro hidden somewhere, the air musty, smoky and filled with quiet chatter. He imagined himself, enjoying the melody of the saxophone, as a piano player played delicately behind him. Just the sensation of playing the saxophone, the feeling of the strap against his neck. The sensation of his fingers against the keys. The buzzing of the reed as music filled the air.

Was that it? Was that seriously it? Of all the things he could've done with his talents, and this was what he worked towards his _entire life_? Just some fantasy of-

"Hey. Hey, Francis?" Francis realised that he was staring at the inside of the sink. "You were sort of blacking out for a second."

"I was?" Gilbert nodded in confirmation. He rubbed the back of his head, surprised at how easy he got caught into the cycle again. "Huh. Excuse me for that." He sighed and rubbed his eyes, trying to calm the tension within him.

"Francis."

"I need some time alone."

"Time alone? No no, I can-"

"Please." Gilbert stopped. He was about to object, but stopped himself.

"Fine. Suit yourself." Without another word, Gilbert left the bathroom.

He sighed. Francis turned on the tap and splashed some water on his face. His only desire was to perform. On the bright side… at least it was something?

He was sick of feeling like this. Of feeling like he was lower than his peers because of his unemployment issue. Even when he was harsh with his wording, Gilbert had a point. If he had a problem, he needed to solve it rather than let it hold him back. Perhaps he could update his resume once ue got back. And then search for- Francis stopped himself when he realised. Wasn't Angus' wedding on next week. Right. He could pack up for Angus' town first. _Then_ he could search again.

And for the next while, he thought.

* * *

By now, the restaurant was quieter as the guests finished their dinner and left. Though still crowded, there was significantly less people in it. Furthermore, their meals had been served. Arthur checked his watch as he nibbled on some of his salad. Gilbert and Francis had been in the bathroom for a while now.

The bathroom door opened on cue, and Gilbert marched out of it with a stone cold expression. Antonio stood up.

"Gil-"

Gilbert swiped up his glass of beer before Antonio could continue and marched outside. Arthur looked back at the bathroom, and noting that Francis wasn't coming out either, he frowned.

Did the two get into an argument? Was he alright? Did he need to go in to check on him? After a few more questions, he sat down and twirled his thumbs to get himself to concentrate. If Gilbert, a long time friend of Francis, got into an argument with Francis, it was something serious. However, considering how Gilbert stormed off like that, it was clear that Francis wanted to be alone right now. Arthur trusted his instincts enough to stay put and trust that Francis was alright, and so he sat.

"So," Antonio brung up. "Uh…"

"What? Oh. I'm an accountant." Arthur mentally kicked himself when he realised that Antonio asked for something before he even knew what he was asking for.

"Ah." He breathed a sigh of relief when Antonio didn't notice the mistake in his answer. "Erhm, alright! Gilbert codes…?"

"Yep, heard that. I… I work for a, a construction company." Arthur never liked wine, but with the water gone, so he sipped some of the bitter liquid to try and act natural. "Yeah."

Antonio nodded. "Huh. Erhm, wow, let's see what else we can talk about. How about…"

"Doubloon?"

"Ah! Right! Yeah! Hey, I don't think that I heard you talk about it too much!" He placed the wine glass down and sat, all cool and casual. "How was it?"

"Oh. Erhm… I… thought that it was ok?"

"ok?"

"Yeah. The music was good, I suppose."

"Yeah, Rod's great at that! All credit goes to him, _god_ I love him." He mentally threw up a little at the sap while Antonio kept on praising his boyfriend.

"Well that's nice. Erhm, Francis told me it gave a phantom of the opera and pirates of the caribbean vibe," he brung up, hoping to change the topic, "and, well, erhm, frankly I agree."

"Haha yeah, we wanted something really grand and epic. So we thought: hey, why don't we do something inspired by those soundtracks?" Arthur nodded. "I think it turned out really well! You?"

"Hm? Oh!" Realising that he was slouching, Arthur sat up. He huffed as he recollected the evening performance. "Well, the music's good, the choreography's good, the story…" He grimaced and inhaled a hiss, but stopped himself when he realised that its implication. Antonio wasn't too miffed, however.

"Oh, the story?" Toni scratched the back of his head. "Heh, that was… that was _really_ in the back burner. But at the end of the day, as long as it's entertaining and fun, that should be enough."

Being entertaining and fun as the only goal? That was it? For Arthur, storytelling was a sacred art of passing wisdom from one mind to the next, a tool of mass communication mightier than the sword.

He huffed. Realising that Antonio was looking at him, he racked his head for a quick response. "The story still miffed me quite a bit."

"Oh really? Huh." He gave out a hearty chuckle. "Well, at the end of the day, we're not trying to write _Don Quixote_ or anything, are we?"

Arthur nodded, and sipped on some wine. Fine, Antonio brung up an interesting factor. He thought back to how Antonio noted that the musical was made to accompany a soundtrack. If that was the case, then it would be the music and choreography that took centre stage, and obviously the plot wouldn't be too featured.

"But… yeah!" Antonio started. "I was a real fan of pirates when I was a kid!" At that, Arthur's interests perked up. So was he.

"Really!" Antonio nodded.

"Uh-huh!"

"Wow. Huh, you know I was wondering if it was a coincidence that the main character's pistol, crap I forgot his name, erhm, anyway, that his pistol could only be used once and that was it. Because those can only be used once back then."

"Oh yeah! In the movies, they can be used more than once, which is pretty bull, because they can't even be reloaded or anything, and they're designed to fire one bullet only."

"I know, right? Pistols don't even have a place to store any extra bullets into, unlike…"

Arthur realised that Antonio's attention drifted elsewhere. When he turned to his side, he saw that Francis was back. His dampened spirits were a stark contrast to the jovial atmosphere of the rest of the restaurant. Francis cleared his throat.

"Well, I've been thinking."

"Thinking?"

"Francis, are you alright?"

"I… sort of need to figure out my needs in this job thing."

"Didn't the therapist ask you to rest?" Francis shifted a little.

"Yeah, well, I decided. I want to start doing something. I want to figure out what to do with my life."

"Don't forget that it may be the self guilt talking, alright?" Arthur cursed himself. Hell that didn't sound right.

"Yeah, I considered that. But... it stems from my fear of failure. And the fact that I don't know what to do with my life."

They stay hushed, curious at what else Francis had to say.

"Right now I play the saxophone. So I'm just going to stick with that. It's not much, but oh well."

"But you still got a lead," Arthur noted.

"Yeah."

"True. But I need to figure out figure out stuff. Look, when I was a kid, I just wanted to perform in front of a crowd. Sometime during the night. To me, it sounded nice, but now… now I want to re-evaluate that. I think that playing the saxophone's not much. It can't cure cancer, it can't bring world peace or anything, but… I like it. A-and I'm just going to focus on that."

It stressed Arthur to see how Francis downplayed his talents. He remembered how passionate he was with music. He remembered how alive his music was. Hearing his music was as if life was breathed into him again. Hell, it inspired him to write a book!

"Didn't you say that music was an international language?"

"Hm?"

"Yeah. I think that the motivation's touching. And it's enough."

"No no, but it's just… playing. I'm not smart, I'm not creative-"

"So? Art. It's the expression of oneself. And your music! Oh how expressive it is! Hell, I can't describe it enough. It's alive, it's beautiful. I-it inspires people! And besides. You said that music is a language that anyone can understand! And wow you have no idea how impactful just how effective it is! If you want to just perform, go for it. I love it! It's amazing! And whoever says otherwise can go fuck!..."

Arthur realised that the entire restaurant was staring at him. Even the band and the waiters were staring. Self consciousness sank into him. Oh god, he wanted to die he wanted to die he wanted to die fuck.

Realising that he was standing, Arthur cleared his throat and sat down, ignoring how the rest of the restaurant staring like a hawk to prey.

The stares of the restaurant goers caused an unpleasant prickly feeling to creep up on his skin. Arthur glanced to the side to check if they had finished staring, but seeing that they still stared, as still as a mannequin, he faced the front. A waiter spilt some wine, and his attention went to cleaning it instead. Slowly, one by one, the rest of the diners turned away, and minded their own businesses again, the restaurant's hearty atmosphere regained.

Arthur groaned and slammed his face onto the table. Hell that was embarrassing, they probably thought he was crazy or something. He also swore! Francis sat down next to Arthur, to which he sat up in response.

"Excuse me, that was probably the wine," he muttered before he stabbed the steak with his fork.

"It is? Well… I'm glad."

"The whole restaurant stared at me."

"Well. Go big or go home, am I right?" He chuckled. Arthur rolled his eyes a little. Fair enough, he supposed. He looked back towards Francis. "But… still," Francis started. "Regardless of that, thank you. I've never thought of that before." It sounded so genuine. Arthur looked up, and seeing Francis relaxed like this, every muscle in him loosened.

"Don't forget that, alri-" Francis hugged him at that which made him tense up in surprise.

"Thank you." He let go and he wiped his eyes.

"Is it really that moving? Jesus." Arthur reached his pocket for a handkerchief. From the lace edges, he realised that he bought Francis', the one he had forgotten to return. "Oh. Here's your handkerchief, excuse me, I, well, I forgot to return it." Francis nodded and smiled, and accepted it before wiping his tears away.

"Well, thanks for returning it then!" The sight of Francis smiling made him feel… joy. Just pure, unfiltered joy within him. He smiled back.

For the rest of the evening, they talked as they ate. After they finished their meals, they walked back to the apartment block. Arthur noted the giddy feeling inside as they walked. with the small outburst seemed nothing more but a distant memory. His mind was more preoccupied with Francis' response. Daresay, seeing him so happy like that gave him a content satisfaction, and knowing that he himself helped with that made him, well, glad.

"Francis?"

"Hm?"

"Thanks for inviting me. It was… ok. But better than what I thought it would be." Francis smiled at Arthur's ernesty.

"You're welcome!" Arthur feels himself smiling, and they continue walking back. They drop Arthur off at his floor.

"Maybe… _maybe_ you could write up a resume," Arthur suggested just before leaving.

"Maybe. Christ, I haven't updated my resume in a long time. So yeah. Maybe I can update my resume, find some performing jobs." His expression changed, as if he just thought of something. "But… I have to be at a friend's wedding next week"

"Heh. Funny, My brother…" Arthur's joking attitude disappeared when he realised something. Something wasn't right. Angus has a wedding next week. Francis has a friend who has a wedding next week...

Didn't Angus have a penpal named Francis?

When the realisation came unto him, even more connections formed.

Angus' penpal was for his _French_ class.

Angus and Francis were the same age.

Hell, he even saw a picture of him once! How did he not realise all this?!

"Hey, Arthur, what's wrong?"

"Is his name Angus?" Francis' concerned look ebbed into a look of confusion, before it tensed into a look of surprise that confirmed everything.

"OH MY GOD, YOU'RE-"

"YES! WHAT THE FUCK!"

* * *

 _ **Woowie! Damn, that was a bomb :D**_

 _ **Soz for the long wait, this chapter was like 4000 words long so ye.**_ ** _Jesus this is the longest chapter yet! However, that title might be took once I get into the details of Arthur's family. The upside? More of bitg to read! The bad news? Well, it'll probably take a long time again -_- I'm really excited to finally be able to write about them! Woo!_**

 _ **Thanks to probablysomebody on AO3 for beta reading this chapter!**_


	14. Chapter 14

_**ASDFGHJKLJGHFGHJKGJGJ IM SO SORRY THIS TOOK SO LONG 0M0" If you followed my author profile you would've seen that over the past 2 months I wrote 13K words worth of other fanfic, so ye.**_

 _ **This chapter is around 3K. Add that and… wow, I published 16K words over these past 3 months. How am I still alive? I'm beginning to terrify myself.**_

* * *

Arthur wasn't sure how he had not realised that Francis was the penpal of Angus' old French class. Again, it had been years since he had seen Angus, the likelihood that he remembered his penpal's name was very slim, anyway.

Arthur scrolled through the train's schedule on his phone as he stood at the platform, a suitcase in his other hand. Their train was arriving in 5 minutes. Like any other Friday, the station was buzzing like of bees, of people leaving the city for a weekends escape. Being the only suitable formal wear he had, he brought his regular work suit. He wrote down to buy another one— the seams of this one were starting to split — but he kept on forgetting. Well, at least it wasn't like his family knew that he wore his suit for work at his brother's wedding. Worst case scenario, he will just buy another suit there.

Gilbert was still at work, so Antonio saw them off. Antonio hugged Francis before he shook hands with Arthur. "Have a nice trip, you two!"

Francis gave him a gentle smile. "Thank you, Toni," he replied. His iPhone rang, and he fished it out of his pocket. "Hang on, Gil's calling me right now," Francis said as he walked across to the other end of the platform.

Antonio patted Arthur's shoulder, catching his attention. When Antonio didn't say anything, the atmosphere shifted. His eyes darted left and right as if he was figuring out what to say.

"Arthur… ever since Francis started therapy, he's been better," he started quietly. Antonio looked back to Francis, who stood by the entrance of the platform, and then back to him. Arthur raised an eyebrow. "Thank you."

"You're... you're welcome? I..."

Antonio let go, smiled like nothing had happened, and patted his shoulder one last time. The way he did so was such a stark contrast that it was hard to imagine that Antonio had said anything at all.

Just as Francis came back from the phone call, the station's speakers announced the departure of a train.

"That's our train!"

After bidding a final goodbye to Antonio, they hopped onto their train and pushed their luggage into the upper compartments. Arthur sat in a seat by the window as Francis sat beside him. Outside, Antonio waved at them with big arm lengths. Francis waved back, prompting Arthur to do the same. As the train sped up, he followed the train. Following, following, until he reached the edge of the platform, and then he was out of the window's view.

Arthur huffed, and collapsed onto the window, the environment of the train much more controlled than at the platform.

A pang of realisation hit him. They were actually going to his town. "Holy shit," he muttered. "Holy shit, we're actually going to be doing this." Francis turned his head towards him, his eyebrows raised. "Going to my town. I, actually no, don't ask." Francis' eyebrow lowered as he looked at Arthur with a questioning gaze.

"How long has it been since you've seen them?" Arthur grimaced, and inhaled.

"You're not going to like this." He glanced back. Francis looked on, waiting for an answer. Arthur sighed, and looked downwards as he covered his eyes from Francis' view. Here goes nothing. "7 years."

"Really!" Panic jumped up and down within Arthur as the sensation of Francis's gaze nudged his neck.

"Yeah."

"No contacts? No…" Arthur shook his head.

"No." he cleared his throat. "Well guess who the asshole of the decade goes to, then!" He said it in a joking lilt. Truth be told, he was too nauseated of worry to joke. His insides were wriggling like worms tied into a knot, muting his surroundings. The muffled sounds, temperature, focus. It was as if a weight sunk him deep into the ocean's water, the water's pressure suffocating him.

Francis frowned. Even he Skyped his father at once a week, but Arthur… he tapped his knee as he tried to think of something positive. "If they invited you despite all these years, then maybe they've missed you." To his dismay, Arthur frowned, his gaze focused on the seat in front of him.

"Me? No."

"Well, why else would they invite you, then?" His eyebrow twitched when he sensed the growing annoyance in his voice. Arthur paused. He leaned against the front as he rubbed his temples.

"I dunno," he muttered. "Guilt trip me for leaving and finally say fuck you to my face," he realised that it was a little too pessimistic, so he tried to be more realistic. "Make me stay, I, I suppose. Probably lynch me," he joked. He continued to not make eye contact. Francis huffed.

"Well… you regret it. That should be enough."

"Enough?" Arthur scolded as he focused his attention back to Francis. He doubted that regretting something would be enough to forget about 7 years. Hell, if Francis wasn't coming, then he doubted that he would come back to that town at all. Francis' brow was tensed into a slight frown.

"But it's better late than never that you go back!"

"But I've still been gone for seven years!" Anger bubbled inside of him. "That's almost a decade! What, a-are they going to welcome me with bloody tea and scones and magically forget that I ignored every single way they've tried… that they've tried to contact me until now…" All the red, hot anger that boiled inside his chest condensed into a cold stone that sunk into his stomach. Arthur huffed in frustration as he looked away. Fuck was he a horrible person. Was he so pigheaded that he ignored every single one of his family's attempts to contact him? He justified that back then by telling himself that he was the one who ran away and severed ties. It would be humiliating if his family found out that he did not become a respected author like he had hoped…

He slumped to the front. Was that it? That was his reason? Anger bubbled in his chest again. Except that it was directed at himself. Fuck was he stupid. Contacting him over and over again, that was not a sign of wanting to humiliate him, that was something else larger.

"Perhaps they wouldn't be as mad-"

"Don't be ridiculous."

Only silence replied. He looked over and saw Francis turning on his phone. Great. Francis had given him the silent treatment, because he was angry at him or disappointed in him or whatever, he wasn't sure, he couldn't quite see Francis' expression. It made him feel like shit at the sight of Francis ignoring him. Oh well, he probably deserved that.

Arthur glanced back. His eyes widened when he saw that Francis was texting to Angus. _Angus._

"What are you doing?" His question was answered when Francis sent a text:

 _I've met your brother Arthur in London. He's coming with me!_

"FFF-!" He stopped himself when he remembered that he was in a public space. Clearing his throat, he found it hard to calm down the adrenaline bubbling in his veins, the fight or flight response urging him to do something. He closed his eyes and counted to 10. As calmly as he could, he asked: "why did you send that?"

Francis shrugged. "Nothing ventured, nothing gained."

"Not when there's a major chance of failure!" Or death, but he decided that even that was too dramatic. Francis shook his head in a sigh.

"How bad could it be? I'm just telling him that you're coming with me. You've already decided to come, so it shouldn't hurt to just-"

"No, you don't understand, they'll _lynch_ me, Francis. At least give a warning or…" Arthur huffed. Francis did have a point, he already decided to come with him. If he gets metaphorically lynched, then it was his own fault, not Francis'. Feeling cross, he slammed his head back onto the seat's head.

He heard Francis shift. Probably stroking his stubble while thinking of a good response. "Why did you leave?" He asked.

In literature, Arthur found many quotes that shook him to the bone. Yet this, an everyday question, carried the same poignancy as the phrases of the literary greats. Should he say it? He realised that Francis didn't have the same context as him, therefore doesn't know how big this whole going back to his town thing was. Arthur took a deep breath in.

"Mum wanted me to stay behind. I didn't want to. A university in London had accepted me, and I wanted to leave my town." He sighed. Back then, leaving his town felt like the right thing to do. He didn't want to be held back. He wanted to flourish. It was natural for parents to watch their child succeed, so he was mad and confused when his mother didn't support his dream. "She told me that I'd be homeless in months if I became an author. I argued that it was bullshit." His mother sat on the table and tried to change his mind to a calmer state, but he fired back sharp daggers of insults and objections. It became a full-blown argument of screaming, tears, and cussing. Even his mother, a conservative woman, swore. Fuck this, fuck that. She had cried. It was hard to get rid of that imagery out of his head. Mum was tough as shit. She always kept a stiff upper lip through her troubles. But he left anyway. "Well guess who got shat on by life?"

"And now you… you only write part-time."

"Only write part-time? That's the least of it. What, do you think that this is only me with my writing? No. This is with my real life. My real clusterfuck of a life, Francis." Realising that he snapped at Francis, Arthur sighed. He leaned against the window and rubbed the bridge of his nose. God was all this shit making him nauseous and tired.

His debt of years of ignorance had now paid off into this dreaded phobia of the unknown. He wanted to know now. He wanted a light inside of this pit of darkness. What will their reunion be like? It was hard to tell. Even after the years of ignoring every form of contact, of not seeing them, do they still hope for him to come back? Or do they want him back to deliver him justice for his treatment?

Arthur wasn't sure of what their motivations were. He was just one of her kids to Mum. Angus didn't like him. Dylan was so and so with him. Peter, hell, he had been gone for half of his life, did Peter even remember him?

Did they still live in the same little house down the street next to the cornershop? How much had they all changed? His mother should be over 40 now. 50? No, that was too old, somewhere over 40. How many grey hairs had she grown? How many wrinkles resided on her face since? And he couldn't get started with Peter. He had been gone since Peter was 6. He should be almost 13 now. 13! This year, he was turning into a teenager!

When he left, Angus was studying to be a doctor. He couldn't remember what Dylan did, he was either studying education or nursing. Oh, and he couldn't get started with Connor! His cousin Connor had lived with them since he was 3. His other cousin… Seth, was it? Séan. His other cousin Séan asked them to look after him until he could graduate from uni and take care of Connor.

Their lives had had so many changes by now. Did he change as much as they have? What had been his story so far? He left and studied literature at a university in London to prove that he was capable of living by himself. Countless publishers turned down his first book. When it did get published, it didn't even sell past 10 copies. So now he lived as an accountant. Convincing himself that it was only temporary, but now... that was it.

Though Francis was mad at Arthur's rejection of his help, a twinge of worry now filled him. Arthur had been staring at the seat in front of him for a while now, with the rising of his shoulders the only sign of movement. He had been like that for a couple of minutes.

"Arthur?" No response. "Arthur." Arthur still wouldn't budge. Arthur's eyebrows furrowed and twitched, a habit he did whenever he was under pressure. His panic levels shot up as a glassy gleam coated his eyes.

The cold water that was unpleasant now froze Arthur to the very bone in a painful, painful way. That was where his story ended. Failure. That was it. Compared to their lives, with so many things that had changed now... he was a failure.

"They shouldn't care anymore." His mind rendered his perspective back into the train. The seat in front of him dissolved into a blue blob as an uncomfortable pricking in his eyes appeared.

A light pressure pressed upon his shoulder. His mind rooted back to reality, and the train's sounds and the temperature became normal again. Still, that heavy, tight sensation was present. Arthur realised that Francis' hand was on his shoulder, his thumb rubbing in a reassuring circular motion. He looked up. Francis looked concerned, but he gave him a reassuring smile. Somehow, the weight ebbed away. His sour mood returned when Francis offered him his handkerchief. He pushed it away before he wiped his tears away with his fleece- he shouldn't rely on someone.

"Arthur, please. I just want to help." Arthur glanced back at him. Francis was frowning, a concerned gaze filling his eyes. Suddenly, he felt bad. What Arthur had done in rejecting his family's attempts to contact him… he was repeating that.

"I'm sorry. I'm sorry that I made you worry. I-I'm just." He exhaled. "I'm just stressed as fuck, my mind doesn't want to think straight." He felt bad at being ignorant of Francis' concern. Here Francis was trying to lighten his spirits, only for him to reject them like some asshole. He didn't deserve to get an earful of his ignorance. He heard Francis inhale.

"Okay." Francis patted his shoulder. "I forgive you." Forgive!

"But-"

"We all do shitty things under pressure. Look, you're going through a lot right now, I, I understand. True, I'm a little mad. Not 'mad' mad, but," he huffed. "Oh well. It happened. At least no one was seriously injured or anything like that." Arthur nodded. Francis had a point. "Arthur, look. You're a smart guy, and you try to help me. I want to at least return the favour." Hearing Francis' compliment touched him. An urge to pop a self-deprecating joke in regards to his advice threatened to rear up, but he held it down.

"Thank you." Arthur huffed as he sat back and relax back into his seat. "Well, I could try to accept more compliments in the future."

"Yeah, that's a good idea!" Seeing Francis upbeat, it caused a smile to grow at the corner of Arthur's mouth.

But Arthur remembered that they were on a train. A train to see his family. Suddenly, the ugly knot reappeared. He rubbed the bridge of his nose and huffed. Fuck. "Sorry. I just, I just remembered that we're seeing my family." He couldn't believe himself- he went over this same conversation with himself a million times. Why was he still miserable?

"Still worried?"

"Yeah." Arthur stared outside of the window, storms brewing within his heavy gaze. In a few more hours, they will be in his town.

In a few more hours. His heart raced and jumped into his throat as the panic within him arose. It was a mess back there. So many untied issues, all tangled into this Gordian knot which he had no sword for. He didn't want to go back, everything was happening too rapidly.

"I'm not ready," he blurted out.

"Not ready? But-"

"No, it's that… will they be upset? Will they be mad? I-I don't know."

The train conductor over the speaker announced something in garbled speeches. The brakes groaned, and with a hiss, the doors opened. Outside the train was no longer greenery, but a train station. Half of the people on the train took out their belongings and rushed outside as chatter resumed.

"The next stop should be my town." His town. One more stop and they will actually be there.

"You could go back to London," Francis noted. "I could text Angus that you're not coming after all." Arthur raised his eyebrows and looked over to Francis, who shrugged. "Your choice."

A wave of relief washed over Arthur, and he grabbed his suitcase's handle from the luggage compartment. While he pulled it out, a small voice in his head interrupted him. If he came back to London, he will forever be left with unanswered questions. Will he come back to his town if he chose to go back to London? The gut feeling said that it was unlikely. So if he went back, that was it.

Arthur sucked in air. He pushed his suitcase back in and sat down. His decision was confirmed when the doors closed with a hiss. There were even fewer people on the train now. He came from a more rural area, which was why.

This was the point of no return. In the evening, they will arrive. Arthur took deep breaths in, a sense of fear knotting his guts. To his surprise, a small voice thanked him. In a few more hours, at least all his questions will be answered.

Francis raised his eyebrows in surprise as Arthur sat down, but his features relaxed, and a smile formed on his lips. Arthur looked to the side to think up something to say.

"I want to make amends. Even though it's a bloody mess back there… I, well I don't want to be left in the dark." A gentle smile spread across his face.

"I'm glad."

He looked back down to his phone as a notification came up. "Dylan's picking us up." Arthur nodded. He glanced out of the train's window. London's towering skyscrapers were but decorations of the horizon, as more and more trees filled the scenery.

"Yeah, Dylan was always the responsible guy."

Francis nodded. From the corner of his eye, he saw Francis typing up a document on his laptop. He leaned over.

"Is that a resume?"

"Uh-huh." Francis typed a bit more before he passed his laptop to Arthur. "Here, Arthur, can you read some of this?"

"Yeah yeah, sure," he muttered. He scanned over the material and typed in some things. "Mostly grammatical errors, a little passive in the language I suppose."

For the rest of the afternoon, Arthur helped Francis update his resumé.

Finally, they were done for the evening. Arthur rubbed his face, leaning back with a comforted sigh. He was drowsy from helping Francis with his resumé but satisfied that his mind had been taken off from all this stress. A fuschia and tangerine line crossed the border between the horizon's silhouette and the indigo sky, stars glittering in the inkiest areas.

"Wow. The stars are beautiful tonight, aren't they?" Francis stated. The scenery outside is quite stunning, he had to agree. Arthur turned around and seeing Francis smile, his mouth spread into a smile as well. Francis patted his shoulder. "Everything will be fine. If you're still not ready, then you could just get on the first ride back once we get there. Okay?"

Arthur nodded. Francis' reassurance made him feel whole for some reason. He liked it. He usually hated being pitied, because it made him feel weak and helpless. But Francis… something about how hushed his voice and how sincere he was made him change his mind. And he wanted to help him, it was silly to reject that, anyway. If it was Francis, perhaps he'll give him a pass.

He noted that Francis was leaning in to get a closer look at the scenery outside. "Here." Arthur stood up. Francis glanced up at him with a puzzled expression. "You can have my seat if you want." His eyebrows raised in surprise.

"Are you sure? Don't get me wrong, I could see the sunset perfectly from here," he teased. Arthur gave out a chuckle and crossed his arms.

"Oh Francis, you horrible liar, say that _before_ you leaned forward."

He gave out a sheepish chuckle as he put his hand on his chest. "Well, don't mind if I do then," he replied before he stood up and switched seats with him.

Francis' earlier encouragement repeated in his mind, a whisper that soothed him like a lullaby. Everything will be fine. That soothed him somehow. That either way, everything will be fine. If he didn't want to meet his family again, if he wasn't ready, he will get on the first ride back. Back to London, and he wouldn't have to face this again.

London. That jungle of concrete and greys. What was his town like now? He couldn't remember, but the sky sure as hell was bluer there... So the grass wasn't greener on the other side at all. On one hand, he missed his town, he wanted to know what had happened with his siblings, his mother. A sliver of the anxiety threatened to resurface.

He looked towards Francis, who leaned against the window, enjoying the beautiful panorama. But he and Francis will arrive, together. At least he wouldn't have to face this mess alone, and with Francis, he felt capable. All of the stress slipped away.

Arthur yawned, feeling sleep cast its spell upon him. With eyelids dry and heavy, his eyes closed and he drifted into a dreamless sleep.

* * *

 ** _Thanks to probablysomebody on AO3 for beta reading this chapter!_**


	15. Chapter 15

_**Boadicea- Britannia**_

 _ **Dylan- Wales**_

 _ **Angus- Scotland**_

 _ **Connor- Northern Ireland**_

 _ **Joey- Wy**_

 _ **Erik- Ladonia**_

* * *

" _Next stop: Carroll_."

Arthur groaned, blinking and rubbing his face at the train speaker's announcement. When he came to, he blinked while scanning his surroundings. The train's interior was darker now- a dark, sleek indigo in contrast to the nectarine orange before. Francis had dozed off, lying back on the seat as his chest rose and sunk, his hand draped over his laptop. A smile spread across Arthur's face at the sight. Recollecting the announcement, a realisation struck.

Carroll.

His town! They've arrived! Arthur stood up and stepped to the window. His heart hammered against his ribcage, his head spun from the boiling concoction of fear and excitement. This was it. With a hand on the cool, glass surface, Arthur took a deep breath and peeked outside.

A gasp escaped his mouth.

Even with the dying sun staining everything a shade of blue, the old footbridge managed to keep its warm colour, fading from bright red to a faint persimmon. But still that was the same footbridge he thought he will never see again.

"Francis? Francis, we're here!" Francis groaned, shifting and furrowing his brows as he squinted at Arthur.

"What?" The breaks screeched as the train slowed down. Francis raised his eyebrows and sat up. "Oh! We're here already?" Arthur nodded.

"Yep." The train slotted into the station platform, its steel exterior such a contrast to the faded, red bricks and the platform's concrete ground. It slid with a screech, dragging on and on, until it stopped. The doors hissed open, prompting the other passengers to stand up and collect their belongings.

"Merde, I need to pack up my stuff!" Francis pulled out his suitcase and stuffed his laptop inside, and pulled out Arthur's suitcase down next.

As Francis got ready, Arthur looked outside the train doors. The passengers blocked the outside view. He gulped, easing his thumping heart, the suitcase's handle digging deeper into his palm. Two or three more steps. Only two or three more steps. That was all it took before he will be back, standing in his town.

A reassuring pat on the back prompted him out of his train of thought. "Ready?" Francis asked. Arthur glanced at Francis, and back outside. Already, the cool evening breeze leaked inside the train, impatient to encompass him again. Closing his eyes, he nodded. Gripping his suitcase tighter,Arthur inhaled, stepped out onto the platform's concrete.

The afternoon breeze chilled his ears, his face, his fingers in a cool, tender embrace. Arthur opened his eyes.

Everything was just as he left it. The faded red bricks, the vending machine waiting near the exit, the green, copper clock with its hands forever frozen at 12. Everything, like a forgotten photograph, waiting to be found again.

A strange, euphoric sensation welled in his belly and pricked his eyes. He was home.

Some steel seats had replaced the wooden ones, however. Finally, the town community had been meaning to replace the rotting wooden seats for a long time. Good to see that they've got something done. His hands brushed a wall. Like the footbridge, the red bricks had faded into a more persimmon colour. As Arthur looked around, couldn't help but notice how empty the station was. In contrast to the London Underground station's myriad of businessmen he was so used to seeing, to see so few people here was jarring.

He glanced at Francis, who looked down at his phone, texting someone. "Dylan's here at the station now!"

"Now!" Arthur looked around the station. With so few people, Dylan bound to show up at anytime.

"Uh-huh-"

"ARTHUR!" Another voice called out. His head whipped towards the direction- he knew who it belonged to. Dylan.

Dylan waved vigorously from the station entrance. His hazel, curly locks of hair had been cut into a clean office cut. As Dylan walked in their direction, Arthur noticed still towered over both him and Francis (to his disappointment), but that same warm brown eyes and grin were there.

"Dylan- _HMPH_!" Dylan's fleece muffled his speech as his great big arms wrapped around him into a great big bear hug.

"Arthur, goodness, I never thought that I'd see you again! I-"

" _Dylan_!" He muffled into his jumper.

"And then I saw that you were coming after all, and everyone-"

"Dylan, save your sob story for later, _you're suffocating me_!"

"Oh!" Dylan's grip loosened, and Arthur stumbled back, gasping for air. "Sorry," he apologised with a sheepish grin. Noticing Francis beside him, Dylan stuck out a hand. "Hi, I'm Dylan. I heard a lot about you!" He said with a smile.

After Dylan and Francis finished introducing each other, they left the station. To Arthur's surprise, they walked to the station's parking lot, a small thing with barely 10 parking spaces and even fewer cars. Dylan walked towards a silver Hyundai and pulled out a keyring, unlocking the car.

"You got a car!"

"Yup!" Dylan patted the hood. "The new place Mum works is a little farther, so we got a car."

"The new place?"

"Yeah. She got a new job at another town nearby while you were away- pays a little better." Arthur frowned.

"How come? I thought we were doing fine." Dylan didn't reply, busying himself with opening the car trunk and placing Francis' suitcase inside. Arthur raised an eyebrow. Why didn't Dylan answer that? Oh, right. Because Dylan was the person hated confrontation. Good to see that some things never change, he supposed. Arthur huffed, and placed his suitcase into the trunk.

As Dylan drove, Arthur leaned against the window, watching his town flash by in a merry-go-round of memories. Like the train station, red bricks made up as the foundation of most of the town, different from the grey concrete of London City. But it tugged his heartstrings to see how small everything was now. The shops, the streets… over the last 7 years, Arthur had grown used to all the towering skyscrapers of London. The shops, no higher than two storeys high, three at the most, cowered, crouched on the ground, too afraid to stand tall. Had his town always been this sad?

"So... your family's never had a car before?" Francis asked as he clicked on the seatbelt. Arthur glanced towards Francis.

"Nah." He shook his head. "The town's very small, so you could walk to the other side easily in an hour or two. Most of the time, we travelled either through bikes or by feet." A small smile crept up his face. "I know, it's very tiny compared to major cities such as London or Paris or something. Hah." Francis nodded, glancing outside of the window.

"I suppose your town's still lovely in its own way," Francis noted. "In this quaint way."

"Lovely?" Arthur glanced outside. Some of the shops remained, their red brick interior showing through the peeling paint. Some of them replaced with newer supermarkets and offices. Sawed from their respective origins and stitched together into a Frankenstein of a tapestry. Steel and glass to bricks and paint, sleek blue and modern white next to crusty red and eggshell beige. He sighed.

"I guess. Though Carroll's not like the must-go-to destination of the year on TripAdvisor or anything." Perhaps it would've looked better if more of the original buildings remained. "I beg to differ. I don't know, i-it looks a little sad now."

"Sad?"

"I've been living in London for so many years now. And, well," a glance outside, to confirm everything, "I dunno. I know that things are bound to change after I left, but modernising _Carroll_. It… it doesn't feel right. London's supposed to be modern in some places, since it's the capital. And there are still heritage sites and all. But here, it feels like Carroll's pretending to be something it's not. See that supermarket?" Arthur noted as he pointed outside. Francis leaned over.

"Uh-huh?" he replied.

"There used to be a shoe shop, a fishmonger's, and pet store there. Probably some more, too, but I don't quite remember now."

"Yup, they closed down quite a while ago," Dylan piped in. "Erhm... round about 5 years ago. But you know," he sighed, turning the steering wheel. "Just the sign of the times. Even if something's dear or precious to you, you can't always keep it. Can't stay in the stone age forever, you know- when the world changes, you need to keep up. That's how we grow."

Arthur raised an eyebrow; Dylan had always been the most resistant to change, the most hesitant to throw away old toys, to bid old friends farewell, to accept an old bridge being rebuilt. Why? Why is he accepting change now?

His train of thought stopped when the car and Dylan pulled the keys out. Arthur whipped his head up. His eyes widened as he looked behind the car. All these orderly, red, two-story houses... this was his neighbourhood.

Arthur turned to face the house that lined the street. It was a humble thing, no taller than the rest, yet stood, defiant and expecting. Still identical to how he had left it. Arthur chewed his lip.

"We're here!" Dylan confirmed as he stepped out of the car. Arthur and Francis followed, and watched as Dylan opened the trunk. "I need to go to the wedding venue and practice my lines, however," Dylan mentioned as he handed Arthur his suitcase.

"Lines?"

"I'm the best man!" Dylan replied with a wink while pulling out Francis' suitcase.

"The best man!"

"Yep!" Arthur nodded.

"Hey, speaking of weddings, where is that groom-to-be?"

"Angus and Marianne are at the wedding venue to sort out last minute adjustments." Dylan's phone buzzed, and he fished it out of his pocket. He frowned. "Yeah, they _really_ need me there now. Mum would like a helping hand in the kitchen, by the way," Dylan said to Arthur. "Hope you'll enjoy your stay here, Francis!" He finished before he stepped into the car and revved up the engine. "See you both soon!"

The Hyundai's engine roared to life and sped away. As it muted, the sounds of the evening caved in. The rustling leaves, the stirring wind, hushing the navy twilight. Hearing all of these again… Arthur had to admit, he missed this.

Francis patted him on the shoulder. "Would you like me to knock?" Arthur shook his head.

"No, don't fret, I can do it." Gripping the suitcase handle tighter to ease his nerves, Arthur walked to his house. "I'm a little nervous, but I can do this." The same brass number 6 remained on the door, the same iron knocker fashioned into the head of a lion.

With Dylan and Angus out, Arthur knew that behind this door was Mum.

Nerves too jittery, he breathed to calm his pulsing heart. A deep breath in, a deep breath out. Cold sweat chilled him as the wind blew.

Holding his breath, he knocked thrice.

Arthur took a step back, sweat gluing his bangs to his forehead, his heart threatening to erupt, while every nerve ached to rest. Did he need to knock again? No, did he make some sort of mistake? A corner of him prayed that no one was home, yet another begged for this wait to end already. He let go of his suitcase, welts on his hand pained enough to form calluses, and rubbed his face. Begging for time both to speed up and to stop, begging for himself to relax-

The door swung open.

It almost hurt to see Mum again. Streaks of frosty white mingled with her Autumn orange hair. Wrinkles etched deeper into grooves only a slight nick not long ago. Crow's feet, eyebags, forehead wrinkles, their prominence stood out.

But her muted, hazel eyes stayed the same.

They embraced each other for a long, long time.

"I missed you," he murmured into her shirt. Even after all this time, it still had that smoky cedar smell.

"Me too, Arthur. Me too," she murmured, rubbing his back. After one final rub, his mother parted. "Welcome home," she greeted with a warm smile her voice cracking, a silver film glazing her eyes. She patted his shoulder. "Come in, tea's on the table." Just like that? With no fuss at all? Arthur was disappointed to admit, but he didn't know whether to be grateful or suspicious. Rubbing his neck, he nodded, returning a smile, and walked inside.

"You must be Francis. Angus told me a lot about you. Nice to finally meet you."

"You too! Err, Ms. Kirkland? May I call you that?"

"Ah, no, Boadicea's fine."

Years after he had gone, the house still had that smell of fresh tea towels and freshly baked goods. The savoury aroma of beef and pastry told him that a beef wellington sizzled in the oven. Arthur palmed the walls. The sun had bleached the wall a paler colour, the wall closer to the shade of paper. Framed photographs covered the wall as always, tinted a blue hue. Baby pictures, photos of him and his siblings when they were kids… new photos hung on the wall as well, most notably, Angus and Dylan in graduation gowns. Eyebags hung under their eyes, though they smiled. Arthur figured that their medical degrees must've been exhausting.

The sound of energetic fantasy music and sword clashes emitted from the living room. He squinted. Video games? Arthur turned around, and took a peek.

The TV screen displayed some sort of action RPG. A PlayStation console sat in the TV compartment. He had wanted one of those when they came out, but they weren't able to afford one. Remembering how Mum got a new job, Arthur thought to himself that perhaps they could afford all kinds of luxuries they could not.

His attention drifted to the ground. Lying on the ground was Peter.

Peter had grown so much! Even lying on the ground, Arthur could see that Peter had inevitably grown taller, though he still had that neat bowl cut. He even wore the same polo shirt uniform that he had worn! Arthur had to give himself a moment to stop himself from tearing up that his little brother had grown that much since what only seemed yesterday.

Peter hadn't noticed him yet, and continued to play his video game, chatting to Connor beside him.

"Arthur, come, I'll fix you a cup of tea." Arthur's mother guided him back to the dining room. Now in the kitchen, Arthur's mouth watered at the more potent scent of beef wellington, though he realised that there was also the smell of roast vegetables, gravy, roast potatoes, with many more cooked items. Perhaps they were having guests over tonight. Miscellaneous treats sat modestly on the table. Those were storebought- his mother was never the best at baking sweet treats. Biscuits, brownies, tea cakes, even scones. (Christ, his mother _did_ welcome him back with tea and scones) Francis glanced up, already comfortable and sipping a cup of tea.

"Heh, fattening us up like Hansel and Gretel, aren't you, Mum?"

"Very funny, Arthur. Now hush, the tea's getting cold."

Pulling out a chair for him, she poured tea into a teacup, scooping in a generous dollop of cream and honey.

"Mum, can I bring Joey and my other friends to the wedding?" Peter called out from the living room.

"Depends. How many?" She replied as she stirred the tea, the honey dissolving into the milky brown mixture, not clinking to the cup even once.

"Erhm, 3 or 4, maybe 2 if Erik's too busy. Oh! I think he asked me to go to a sleepover. So can I-" She tapped the spoon on the cup's rim.

"Peter, your brother's having his wedding tomorrow, that will have to wait. I'm sure Erik will understand." A small grin appeared at the corner of Arthur's mouth. Even now, Mum stressed about the small things.

Peter grumbled out a _fine_ and resumed with his video game. As the phone rang, his mother walked to the corridor to fetch it, leaving both him and Francis by themselves.

He exhaled. Both Dylan and his mother welcomed him back with… no hint of scornfulness nor vinciction at all, but welcoming. Only as if he had came home from a tiring trip, still part of the family. Granted, something about how calmly they carried on seemed strange. But he dismissed that thought. Maybe what was important was that he was here. Maybe he needn't to stress this much in the first place.

"That… that was surprisingly normal," Arthur muttered. Francis nodded as he finished a biscuit.

"You know, I was actually a little scared for you. But everything actually turned out ok!" He replied, a joyful, gentle smile on his face. Arthur smiled.

"It did. Thank _God!_ " Arthur nodded, twirling a fork between his fingers. "Heh, I don't need to dig my grave anymore!"

He had said it with a smile. But that smile disappeared when a shrivel of suspicion snuck and got the better of him. Everything was calm. Too calm. Too normal towards someone who left for 7 years. As if his family purposefully held back everything they had against him. Out of habit, panic swelled up. What if they were scared he'll leave again? What if there's something going on that he didn't know going on? Arthur reasoned himself to calm down- he was gone for 7 years, of course they would miss him. Of course they didn't want him to leave again. Even if there's this "something" going on, what would it be? Chaining him to the house? Besides, what solid evidence was there to prove that his family actively worked to keep him pleased aside from mere speculation?

"You alright?" Francis asked.

"Uh-huh. Don't fret, just my nerves, I've got them under control now." He picked up a scone and bit into the buttery treat.

* * *

Due to Arthur and Francis' late arrival, no vacant rooms at the nearby motel were available for them, so they were offered a spare room upstairs.

"I could've booked one earlier. I'm sorry, I'm a bit of a scatterbrain," Francis muttered, carrying his suitcase as they went up the stairs. Oh well, Arthur decided that he couldn't bring himself to hate that face. Arthur stroked his chin, trying to think of a positive outcome.

"On another hand… since I came late, if you've pre-booked a motel room months prior, it's likely that it would've been one with a single bed."

Francis' face twisted as he raised an eyebrow. Pausing for a moment, he exhaled, and ruffled back his hair.

"Putain de merde," he muttered. "I guess we've dodged a bullet, then." Arthur blinked. Realising the implied outcome of having to share a bed, he inhaled a hiss, and rubbed his neck as cold sweat pricked up his skin.

"Yup. It'd be… it'd be awkward." His brain ceased to function as they went up the stairs. The awkward situation occupied his mind for a moment before Francis tapped him on the shoulder, and he glanced up. His mother had swung open the first door next to the stairs. It was his room.

"Wow. This was my bedroom." His mother nodded.

"Yep."

Arthur scanned the room as they entered. None of his original furniture was left. His posters, his bed, his desk, they were all replaced with plain furniture looking like they came out of a hotel. A bunk bed hid in the corner of the room, possibly added once his arrival with Francis was announced. He fingered a dark square on the custard wall next to the door, blocked out by an Allan Poe poster that had since been removed. It distressed him to see his favourite things packed away and replaced. This had been _his_ bedroom all his life, where he'd write his stories all day long, so to see all this removed proved startling. Granted, he wasn't sure if Francis would appreciate the Edgar Allan Poe poster staring him down.

"Alright, I'll be downstairs if you need me." With that, Boadicea left the room.

Arthur nodded. After she left, he placed his suitcase on the first bed and unpacked. Glancing to his right, he saw that Francis' clothes and other belongings already splayed out on the bed. Arthur raised an eyebrow at Francis' suits.

"Why do you have 2 suits?" Francis looked up and shrugged.

"In case I couldn't decide which one to wear, of course." Arthur realised that Francis had an indecisive streak, with bringing 2 suits and forgetting to book a motel room. Meanwhile, Francis eyed Arthur's suit that rested in his hands, and furrowed his eyebrows. "Isn't that your regular work suit? Hah, a little shabby for a _wedding_ , don't you think?"

"Well, yeah, I wasn't, well, going to come here, and I only had one suit." Arthur huffed as he sat on the bed, "Would he even notice? The seams aren't that visible. Would… I-I know it's a little ridiculous," he laughed to ease his nerves. "Of course he'd notice the splitting seams and shit." The suit crumpled like scrunched paper into a rug of lint. Arthur realised that bringing his work suit instead of buying a new one may not have been the best option after all.

"Here." Francis picked up an indigo suit jacket.

"What?"

"Try this." He held the jacket by the collar with a hopeful smile. "I think you'd look nice in this."

"Oh. Thanks, Francis." Arthur stuck out his arms as Francis put on the jacket. Unfortunately, the shoulders drooped when Arthur put his arms down, a little wide for him. Francis stroked his stubble, his brows furrowed in concentration.

"You know sewing, right?"

" _Embroidery,_ I can't sew for shit. Well, unless I could stitch in a flower or two, that might distract everyone." Francis stifled a chuckle.

"Alright, alright. Is there a suits shop here somewhere?"

"Erhm…" Arthur scratched his head. "There was one, not sure if it's still around. But… now that there are newer stores, I suppose that there might be one anyway."

"Ah. Right, good point. We can go there tomorrow," Francis said with a wink, to which Arthur nodded.

After they've finished packing, they went downstairs. With their belongings unpacked, they were left at their own accord. Francis read a book while Connor and Peter played a new videogame. Arthur tapped his fingers on his knee. After jittering for a while, he went upstairs and fetched his laptop. Soon, along with Peter's video games, the sound of tapping keys occupied the empty space-

"So, how's your writing business going?" Boadicea asked when she appeared behind the couch. Arthur jolted and slammed the laptop close so hard, he swore he heard a crack.

"Mum, Jesus! At least give a warning next time!" Boadicea raised an eyebrow, and crossed her arms. She wanted Arthur to continue. Arthur took a deep breath in. "It's… it's going well." To his surprise, his mum held his hand, and stroked the inside of his wrist with her thumb.

"If it's not providing enough for you, you can come back-"

"No!" Arthur replied, jolting away.

"No?" Boadicea echoed, "What do you mean no? It was just a suggestion, no need to be all worked up over it!"

Did he send out the wrong impression? That he doesn't want his mother's help? "Oh. Sorry. Erhm… what… what I mean is that I'm doing well."

"How well?"

"Well… well enough."

"Janitors do well enough, but they sure don't live like the Queen, do they?"

A small _no_ dropped out of Arthur's mouth. His mouth twisted into a frown. Realising the tension in his body, he took a deep breath in. "Mum, relax, I can put food on the table, I have a roof over my head. It's not like I'm living on the streets. I can pay rent, too, which you know is expensive as fuck in London-"

" _Language,_ Arthur." She crossed her arms, and gave him _that knowing glare_ Arthur simply knew too well _._

"For what?"

"The F word is a swear, not a simile." His mother brushed off his shoulders. "You ought to know that, especially being a writer and all."

"Mum, I'm an adult, it's not that bad of a swear word."

"It is not a _vulgar_ swear word, 'not that bad' is 'not that clear', Arthur Kirkland."

Don't do that! Arthur swallowed. Goddamn, why did his mother have to be a teacher, too? "Not that bad is… not clear enough."

"Better. Keep in mind that no one would buy your books if they're not spelt correctly."

"Hey-!" The sound of crunching gravel caught their attention. She patted his shoulder as she looked at driveway outside, where the silver Hyundai rolled in.

"Hang on, poppet, Angus and Marianne's come back," she said, still patting his shoulders. While patting them, she frowned as tugged at his fleece's material. "Ay, Arthur, you've had that fleece since you were 16! I'll buy you a new one, alright?" A kiss on his cheek startled him. "Love you," she said, giving one last reassuring pat before walking down the hallway. Arthur stared as she walked, frowning and rubbing that weird kiss on his cheek. What was that for? His mother'd never do that in any other circumstance, being the reserved woman that she was.

Arthur looked out of the window. Diamond stars studded the black velvet night. A graceful Brunette came out with an elderly couple, who Arthur presumed was the bride and her family. The bride (Marianne?) lent a hand and helped her parents outside. She seemed kind, not a bad choice, Arthur had to admit.

Then Angus stepped out.

Angus had glasses now. The pinched off fat from the sides supported his wide shoulders, and his small stubble had been shaved, instead having a pair of sideburns planted on his cheeks.

His mother welcomed Marianne's parents with a handshake outside. Angus shifted for a bit before he made eye contact with Arthur. Arthur looked down, a quiet gulp sliding down his throat.

He shrunk in the corner, staring at his shoes, cross armed.

Everyone walked to the dining room straight away. Everyone except Angus.

Angus' shoes stayed in front of Arthur's vision. Even without looking, Arthur knew that Angus was staring at him. Even without looking, Angus' icy blue eyes chipped into his skull— eyes narrowed, mouth stretched thin from a frown as he crossed his arms, waiting for Arthur to say something. A chill up his spine made Arthur's squirming guts twist into a knot, tighter and tighter the longer this went on.

Come on, leave already, he wanted to say. Even without looking, Arthur could see him clear as day. Judging, angry, waiting. The image of Angus' steel cold glare seared into his head. A cold prickle climbed up his spine as the air stiffened and squeezed.

Arthur exhaled. It was okay, it was okay. True, Angus wanted him here. But if he wanted to confront him? Well, he will have to confront him like a man.

"Long time no see, Angus," he said, forcing his head up. Arthur's mental image matched Angus' expression exactly. Taking in controlled breaths, he braced himself for whatever Angus will unleash on him.

"Angus," their mother called. Said person must've heard, because he shifted away to the dining room. His eyes remained on Arthur as he frowned, his expression unchanged and cold. Whatever Angus had wanted to say, Arthur will have to face it later.

When Angus turned away, he transformed from a formidable beast to a jolly man light on his feet, strolling down the hallway.

"Francis!" Angus slapped his back, his mood now jovial and aloof, "glad that you've finally come!" Arthur's eye twitched. Bitter poison boiled in Arthur's gut. Angus wanted to piss him off. Bastard wasn't even subtle. If Angus really was that mad with him, why doesn't he say it to his face already?

As Angus spoke, Francis turned back for a second, his eyebrows knitted in concern. Arthur loosened his tensed nerves. No, Francis wasn't responsible for that. Francis twisted his mouth, wanting to say something, but turned back when Angus asked him a question.

As Marianne and her parents went into the living room, Arthur stayed, biting his lower lip and shifting as he replayed and today's events. Dylan's ignored question, his mother's calm attitude, Angus' frustration… Both Dylan and his mother were fine. Angus was a different story, with his cold, piercing glare. Arthur wondered how much bitterness remained in his family.

Dinner didn't seem quite right after that.

* * *

 _ **Fun piece of trivia: Arthur's town is named after Lewis Carroll, the author of Alice in Wonderland ;)**_

 _ **I'm really excited to post this chapter! Hence why it took this long to post it, ha XP**_

 _ **Thanks to probablysomebody on AO3 for beta reading this chapter!**_


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